


Awakenings

by kimberly_a



Category: Peter Pan (2003)
Genre: F/M, Innocent Peter, Masturbation, Orgasm, Pining, Puberty, Sexual Experimentation, Virginity, Young Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-08
Updated: 2013-03-08
Packaged: 2017-12-04 16:28:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/712739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kimberly_a/pseuds/kimberly_a
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Wendy's thimble stirs confusing feelings in Peter Pan, he finds himself facing an entirely unfamiliar way of relating not only to Wendy, but also to his own body.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. In His Dreams

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story about the development of a teenaged boy's sexuality -- that's the sole purpose and intention of this story -- so don't continue reading if that might offend you.

Time in Neverland works differently than it does in other places. Sometimes, it flows more quickly, but at other times it flows very slowly indeed. And so it is difficult to estimate weeks or months or years in Neverland, for those terms have very little meaning.

In any case, Peter Pan himself cared little for time and had little sense of its passing. If asked his age, he would reply simply, "Quite young," and if asked how long since Wendy had left, he would reply only, "Very long."

Perhaps Peter's impression was correct in Neverland, where time is so malleable, but a more objective outside observer might have argued that it was **not** actually very long after Wendy and the boys had gone that the changes started.

Neverland was much the same as always, filled with ever new and thrilling adventures. New Lost Boys had even begun to arrive, here and there, and Peter took them under his protection, gathering them together into a wild and noisy small society of rascals.

Yes, Neverland was much the same as always. But Peter Pan was not.

He still fought pirates, swam with mermaids, flew among the fairies, played upon his pipes, brandished a sword with the same expert arrogance ... but deep within himself he felt a strange restlessness he could not identify.

In his confusion over this new restlessness, Peter frequently left the Lost Boys to their own devices, instead of lording his authority over them as he had so enjoyed doing in the past. Even his battles with the pirates now seemed to have lost much of their excitement. Instead, Peter often flew away to a high tree branch or secluded hillside to be alone with his thoughts.

Thoughts, it might be noted, had never been a particular friend to Peter in the past, for he found them to be tiresome and almost invariably unpleasant. But, since Wendy's visit -- or, rather, since Wendy's thimble, which Tink had afterward told him was truly a kiss -- Peter found himself **thinking** more and more often, despite his own intentions to do something far more rakish and impressive with his days.

He found himself thinking far too often of Wendy's thimble, remembering how she had leaned over him, her body warm and soft where it touched his bare chest, her eyes intensely blue as they gazed at him, and then her lips ... her lips gentle against his, her lips tasting like moonlight and starshine and dreams.

When the thimble had happened, as he lay upon the deck of the Jolly Roger, Peter had felt only wonder. He had been awed at this new feeling within his breast, this feeling that seemed to expand and fill every part of him with something he could not define.

But in the days since that moment, Peter had felt a great many different feelings which he did not understand, and which frightened him.

* * *

And then the dreams began.

At first, they were only vague images and impressions, always centering around Wendy and the thimble she had given him. The warmth of her body, the softness of her lips, the feel of her hand upon his cheek. Peter woke often with his heart beating fast, his breath reduced to rapid panting. His eyes wide in the dark, Peter wondered what was happening to him, why he felt this way, why he had these thoughts, why his body felt so strange.

And, after a time, Peter's dreams began to change.

He dreamt each night of Wendy, but they were no longer upon the deck of the Jolly Roger. Instead, he hovered above her in her bed, as he had done so long ago. He watched her sleeping face, so beautiful and peaceful, her lips so tempting. He reached out a hand toward her, his fingers brushing ever so softly across her mouth, and at his touch her eyes opened to gaze up at him.

He smiled down at her, just a very small smile, a slight curving of his lips, and Wendy raised her arms to pull him down. Her arms wrapping around him, Peter rested on top of her, and he felt her warmth and softness all along the length of his body. The feeling was unlike anything he had ever felt before, and it made shivers run along his skin.

In his dreams, he raised his hands to stroke Wendy's hair, tangling his fingers into the soft brown locks so that he could hold her head gently in both his hands. And then, in his dreams, as he held her head gently within his hands, Peter pressed his lips to hers. And while he kissed her, while their lips moved against each other subtly as they had on the deck of the Jolly Roger, Wendy's soft hands also stroked the bare skin of his back, making his shivers so intense that he thought his body might fly apart at the sensation.

Sometimes, during these dreams, while feeling Wendy's lips against his and her soft hands upon the skin of his back, Peter felt as if his body **did** fly apart, as if he had been struck by lightning and scattered among the stars. And after those dreams, he woke breathless and stunned, his heart racing, his body still throbbing with an awed pleasure for which he had no name. And after those dreams, he also found a strange substance upon his belly, and worried what it might mean.

* * *

Peter felt afraid to go to Wendy's window, certain that she would look at him and immediately know of the thoughts he had been having, and the dreams, and the strange substance upon his belly for which he had no name. And so he refused to go.

But in truth restraint had never been a strength of Peter's, and so at last he found that he could not help himself, and so pretended that he had never intended differently. "I shall go to Wendy's window!" he proclaimed to the mystified Lost Boys. They had heard of Wendy, but did not know why Peter was making such a production of going to visit her. Seeing the questioning looks in the eyes of the younger boys, Peter became nervous, and so simply flew away as he had said he would do. The four younger boys in the jungle of Neverland exchanged confused glances, shrugged, and then continued on toward the Indian village.

As Peter flew, he heard a jingling voice beside his right ear, and found a smiling Tinker Bell sitting upon his shoulder, her bare legs demurely crossed. Tink had been spending less and less time with Peter since Wendy's thimble, and so he was very happy to see her ... until he remembered where he was going and why. He bit his lip in uncertainty.

Sensing that her welcome might not be entirely heartfelt, Tinker Bell asked Peter what was the matter and what was wrong with him.

Since Peter had been asking himself those same questions, he had no answer for her, but he lifted his chin slightly as if to show that he did not care. "I'm fine, Tink. Nothing is wrong with me." But he did not believe it, and so his expression became worried again as soon as he had turned his face away and flew onward toward Wendy.


	2. At the Window

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's sex in this story. Lots of it. In fact, it's sort of the whole point. So if you don't like sex, go away.

As has been mentioned, time in Neverland works differently than it does in other places. Sometimes, it flows more slowly, but at other times it flows very quickly indeed.

And so it was that Peter Pan and Tinker Bell arrived at the Darlings' home with little idea of how much time had passed. Neither of them cared much for the concept of time, and so they understood it very little.

Peter did notice that Wendy no longer slept in the nursery, for he peered in at that familiar window and saw only a great many beds and boys and swords and books and tin soldiers and various toys scattered quite carelessly about the floor. The Lost Boys, now quite obviously found again, slept soundly, snoring side-by-side with John and Michael.

But there was no Wendy.

Flying round to one of the home's other windows, Peter saw Wendy's parents in their bed, though they did not snore nearly so loudly as the boys in the nursery. Mrs. Darling, in fact, snored only the very gentlest and sweetest of snores, barely audible at all. It was quite a charming snore, in fact.

Mr. Darling, on the other hand, snored a very business-like snore, very serious and respectable. He snored as if his family's happiness depended upon him snoring correctly. It was the most responsible snore that Peter had ever heard, and he found it quite horrible.

And so Peter and Tinker Bell flew round to yet another of the Darling home's upstairs windows, and there at last they found Wendy, lying in her bed, not snoring at all. From his place outside the window, Peter could see that her soft lips were slightly parted, her long lashes resting gently upon her cheeks, her shining brown hair spread out upon the white pillow. Forgetting Tink's presence, Peter found himself wanting to go to Wendy just as he had done in his dreams, and so he pushed upward on the window.

But the window was latched.

Tink giggled at him, making Peter glance guiltily toward her, embarrassed that he had been observed. Looking back into the room, Peter fretted. Had Wendy latched the window purposely to keep him out? Was it because of his dreams? Was she offended? Did she know about his strange feelings? Did she know that he had been thinking about her?

He hovered at the window, pressing his hands to the glass and peering through for a long time, just watching Wendy sleep. Eventually, Tinker Bell became bored and began pulling on locks of his hair, urging him to return with her to Neverland. And so, with one last longing glance through the window, Peter turned and flew away once more.

* * *

The dreams did not stop, however.

Sometimes they changed slightly, so that as he lay atop her Peter's lips trailed across Wendy's face and to her neck, tasting her skin. In his dreams, her skin was sweet as honey and he could not taste her enough. Sometimes, too, her legs would move beneath his, rubbing against him softly and slowly.

Those dreams always ended with the lightning strike, with the pounding of his heart and the strange white substance upon his belly.

As time went on, Peter became somewhat less frightened of the dreams, and in fact at length began to anticipate them quite eagerly. He was still uncertain of what was happening to him, but he had at last accepted that this mysterious change had its merits. The lightning strike being the best of these, of course.

He returned often to Wendy's window, usually leaving Tinker Bell behind in Neverland, lest she either grow bored or observe him in some embarrassing situation. Peter hovered outside the Darlings' home, watching Wendy through the glass, thinking of how she had felt against him in his dreams, and often his body reacted, growing hard and heated between his legs, just as was sometimes the case when he woke early from his dreams of her.

He wished that he could touch Wendy's beautiful face, claim even one more thimble, but the window was always latched.

* * *

Time passed, and Peter continued to visit Wendy's window frequently, and his dreams persisted. In fact, the Wendy dreams had grown so very pleasant that Peter upon occasion wished that he could always be dreaming.

But at length he discovered that when he thought of Wendy, even when he was awake, his body would respond as it did when he watched through her window. In fact, his body began to respond at most inopportune times, such as when he was spying upon the pirates, or training the Lost Boys in sword fighting, or attending the fairy court. It was terribly embarrassing, and Peter was **not** accustomed to embarrassment. He attempted to hide his body's strange behavior as best he could, but he was certain that everyone must know that something was wrong with him. Leaves are not, after all, particularly good camouflage against such situations.

In private, however, Peter delighted in some of the changes to his body, for he found that he himself could cause the lightning strike brought by his dreams, if he touched himself in the right ways. This was a most thrilling discovery.

* * *

On the day this discovery was made, Peter had ordered the eldest Lost Boy, whose name he had unfortunately forgotten, "You're in charge while I'm gone." The four smaller boys watched him with respect but with also a faint tinge of abandonment. They somehow knew that Peter Pan ought to be with them more often, but it was not their place to question his actions.

Peter was glad they did not ask where he was going, for it might have made him blush, and Peter Pan did **not** blush. And so leaving the Lost Boys behind in the secret hide-out, he flew up to one of his favorite secret places, a spot upon the highest mountain of Neverland, where there was a large rock which formed an overhang, so that Peter might hide beneath it and be protected from casual view.

It was one of his favorite places to think of Wendy and to ponder his dreams.

Reclining back upon the cool, mossy ground beneath the rock, Peter lay with his hands behind his neck, his knees bent so that his feet rested flat upon the moss. He closed his blue-green eyes and let the memory of his dream of the previous night flow through him, remembering Wendy's warm arms around him, her hands upon his back, her soft lips tasting his. He licked his lips and sighed quietly.

It was all so real in his mind that his body between his legs grew hard and hot, urgent for something Peter could not quite imagine, and his heart began to pound loudly in his ears. Pulling his hands from behind his head, Peter pressed one to his chest, curiously feeling the beat of his heart. His other hand quite by accident brushed against the hardness between his legs, sending a jolt of pleasure the entire length of his body, from his toes to his head to his fingers. He felt quite as if he had been stung by one of the jellyfish that sometimes swam Neverland's oceans. Except that this sting felt **good**.

Wanting more of that feeling, Peter loosened the leaves from about his body so that the breeze touched his skin, and then closed his eyes again, leaning back upon the mossy ground and thinking of Wendy and his dream. His body grew even harder, sending another shiver of pleasure through him when he touched himself again.

Experimentally wrapping his hand around the part of his body which had grown, Peter squeezed, groaning softly at the resulting sensation, and then made tentative stroking motions. It felt good, and so he did it some more. And then some more again.

Opening his mouth slightly to pant with excitement, Peter arched his back against the ground, feeling the building urgency in his body as he stroked himself faster and faster. His body's demand for release grew ever stronger as his hand fairly flew in its motions. It felt as if every muscle in his body was tensed, straining toward something glorious.

And then, all of a sudden, it happened. Peter's eyes squeezed tightly shut as his back arched even further off the ground, the fingers of his free hand digging desperately into the ground beneath him and his mouth falling open in a hoarse moan of Wendy's name as the lightning struck him and he flew apart.

Afterward, Peter lay dazed, his entire body throbbing in reaction, his breath still fast, his fingers slowly unclenching from their grasp on the ground below him. He could not help but think still of Wendy as he lay listening to his heartbeat gradually begin to slow.

Wendy. **His** Wendy.

He felt a deep, aching need to see her ... and so he resolved to go to her window again that night. But first he lay hidden in his secret place and waited for his body to recover.

Of course, what Peter did not know and would have been appalled to learn was that the fairies had spied his secrets upon their unseen travels around the island, and that the mermaids -- with all their dark mystery -- knew all of his actions in all of his hidden places.

He was not the only one in Neverland who knew that changes were upon him.

* * *

That night, Peter flew again to Wendy's window, planning to hover at the glass to watch her in her bed. But this night was different, for it was a very warm evening, and Wendy's window had been left open to let in the gentle breezes.

Peter hesitated at the window frame, suddenly uncertain, fearful that Wendy would be very angry if she knew not only his thoughts but also about the lightning strikes, fearful that she might know everything by simply looking at him.

But, in the end, Peter simply could not resist the temptation, and so he flew silently in through the window, and slowly approached Wendy's bed.

Due to the warmness of the night, she had pushed aside her quilted counterpane, and she lay clothed in nothing but her sleeveless white lawn nightdress. Gazing at her with hungry eyes, Peter saw that her body had changed since he'd last seen her from so near. She now had more curves, particularly her chest. And she had somehow kicked her nightdress up in her sleep, so that her legs were exposed from the knee downward, and Peter found himself almost unbearably excited by the sight of her knees. They were so pale and smooth ... he wanted quite desperately to touch them.

But, certain that indulging such a wish would result in screaming and banishment, Peter pulled away slightly from where he had begun to hover so near her body, and gulped in an attempt to calm himself. He hovered over her, his body aligned with hers, just as he had done in so many of his dreams, and he looked down at her face, still so beautiful that it made Peter catch his breath for a moment.

He reached out a tentative hand, just as he had done in his dreams, reaching toward her lips which looked so soft and inviting. He did not touch them, however, for he feared what Wendy would say and do if wakened.

Even without his touch, however, Wendy sleepily blinked her eyes, coming awake suddenly to gaze with disbelief at the boy who hovered above her. She gasped, which sent Peter flying back in surprise, so that he collided with the sharp corner where the ceiling met the wall, much as he had done so very long ago. He stayed there, watched her with uncertainty in his eyes, but Wendy leapt from her bed and cried softly, "Peter!" She smiled up at him with bright eyes, her shining brown hair falling smooth upon her shoulders and down her back in waves. She made Peter's heart hurt in his chest, though he was not sure why.

Reassured by her tone and her smile, Peter returned to land some little distance from her upon the floor. Not knowing what else to do, Peter made the same formal bow to her as he had done upon their first meeting.

Wendy gave him a queer smile, but then curtsied gracefully in response. Her bare shoulders and arms gleamed in the moonlight, looking as soft and delicate -- and as tempting -- as her knees. Peter looked away, flustered.

Unsuccessfully attempting to catch his eye, Wendy asked excitedly, "Why are you so formal, Peter? Why have you not returned sooner? It has been **ever** so long!"

Peter nervously fidgeted with some mysteriously unidentifiable items upon the nearby dressing table, wincing apologetically when something fell and broke upon the floor. "Sorry," he said with widened eyes, hoping to be easily forgiven.

But Wendy merely laughed, clasping her hands together before her with surprised pleasure. "Peter, I could not be angry with you, not when you have finally returned!"

"You latched the window," Peter accused, thinking of Hook and his predictions, and how they had hurt. Hook had been right about the window.

"Oh, Peter, I ... I didn't think," Wendy apologized gently, but also with a slight rebuke in her tone. "You see, it had been so long, and you had not returned. I did not think you would."

Peter gazed around the room, walking slowly here and there, feeling a strange twisting in his stomach. It was something like fear, and something like excitement, but the fear and excitement were rolled up so tightly together so that he could not tell where one ended and the other began. Looking at Wendy in her thin nightdress with her bare arms and her hair streaming all about her made his breath feel constricted, made his heart ache at her loveliness. He worried that if he came too near her, if he looked at her too long, his body would grow hard and she would be frightened or offended ... she would **know**. And so he looked everywhere but at she whom he had come to see.

"Peter?" Wendy was puzzled by the boy's behavior. Why had he finally returned, only to stare around her room as if she were invisible?

Peter looked at her then, in response to her call, and she saw that his eyes were dark and intense, his face oddly hungry in a way she had never seen it before. She shivered lightly and brought up her hands to rub her arms, as if the room were not already overly warm in the summer night.

"Why did you come back, Peter?" Wendy's eyes were so blue in the moonlight, it was just as in Peter's dreams. He could not help himself from walking toward her slowly.

Finally standing only inches from her, feeling her body so close to him, feeling the thrumming of his body beneath his skin, feeling the pull of all his dreaming, Peter watched her eyes as he murmured softly, "For another thimble."

Wendy's eyes widened, but she did not seem upset with him. Rather, she seemed shy, casting her lashes down and smiling a nervous smile. Peter thought that she appeared willing, but hesitant. He smiled with anticipation, though his hands were trembling.

"Peter," Wendy began, looking up into Peter's eyes once more, but Peter had stepped closer to her while her eyes had been downcast, and she found him very close indeed. His eyes were blue-green even in the moonlight, and the mischievous smile so slightly touching his lips was just as she had remembered it. She had long given up on Peter Pan and had moved on with her young life, but to see him here so unexpectedly again ... her first and thus far only love ... she found that she too wanted one more kiss.

Finding nothing more to say, Wendy simply raised herself up on her bare toes, resting one hand upon Peter's chest and the other hand upon his shoulder for balance, and she leaned upward, tilting her face willingly toward his.

Placing his trembling hands on Wendy's waist, Peter leaned down to touch his kiss to Wendy's mouth, his eyes fluttering closed as he felt the softness of her lips moving against his, just as they had in his dreams. Her hands, too, so soft and warm, touched his skin. Without realizing that he had done so, Peter shuffled ever so slightly closer, so that their bodies touched subtly along their lengths. Wendy, feeling his body so near, instinctively slid her arms around his neck and relaxed into him as their kiss continued, his strong arms tightening around her to hold her more closely, lifting her quite off her feet.

Wanting to taste her as he had in his dreams, Peter parted his lips slightly to lightly lick Wendy's mouth, and indeed she tasted wonderful. Not like honey, but like starlight. At the feel of his tongue, Wendy's lips parted on a surprised gasp. Not having expected this, Peter tentatively tasted the inside of her mouth with his tongue, becoming quite dizzy when her tongue shyly touched his. He had not felt this even in his dreams.

Suddenly, Peter became aware that his body had grown hard with want, and he pulled roughly away, dropping Wendy quite abruptly back onto her own feet as he backed up slightly, staring down into Wendy's heavy-lidded gaze. They were both breathing heavily. Her lips were slightly swollen with his kiss and seemed to beg wordlessly for more.

"I must go," said Peter desperately, hoping to escape before she discovered his physical predicament, which seemed only to be increasing. Just looking at her was unbearably exciting. He wanted only to go to her, to hold her in his arms and feel her warm against him once more.

Wendy tilted her head slightly as if preparing to ask a question, and in that moment she looked so very lovely and tempting that Peter took another stumbling step back, away from her. "I must go," he repeated breathlessly, and walked hurriedly to the window. Casting one last yearning glance over his shoulder at Wendy, he stepped out and flew away into the starry sky.

"Will you come back?" Wendy asked, her voice thick with her own sweet longing, but Peter had already gone and did not hear her question. She touched her lips wonderingly, as if uncertain whether the kiss had indeed happened. Peter had left so quickly, it all felt rather as if it had been only a dream.

And so Wendy stood at the window, watching the starry sky into which he had disappeared, remembering how his arms had lifted her quite off her feet as they had kissed, and wondering when Peter Pan had grown so tall.


	3. Asleep and Awake

In Neverland, age, like time, is a meaningless concept, dependent entirely on thoughts and feelings. Captain James Hook had always been old because he felt and thought nothing but oldness. The Lost Boys were always young because they felt and thought nothing but childhood. Age in Neverland was just that simple.

Peter, however, without realizing it, through his thoughts and feelings and actions since Wendy's thimble, had gradually entered some in-between place, where he did not think or feel entirely like a child, nor entirely like an adult.

His body therefore knew not quite what to be. It attempted to follow his thoughts and feelings, confused though they were, and so Peter had grown taller without even realizing that it happened. His limbs had grown longer and more sleekly muscular, his shoulders more broad and strong, his face more defined and less childishly soft in its lines. He was still, however, slender, and traces of boyhood still lingered in the green flecks of his eyes, in the soft curve of his lip, in the vulnerable turn of his golden-tanned ankle, and in the sun-kissed tousle of his light brown hair.

Peter himself had not noticed any changes, as they occurred so gradually, but Wendy found herself pondering them at some length in the days after his unexpected visit. Peter did not return the following night, nor the night after that, nor the night after that. In fact, Wendy at length began to wonder if he would return at all.

It was all so very perplexing. Why had he suddenly appeared after more than three years, kissed her in a way that made her knees weak and her breath fast, and then vanished again into the same starry sky from which he had first emerged? And why had he looked so much older, and been so very tall?

She found herself rather sheepish when she thought of the brazenness of her own behavior -- throwing herself at a nearly-grown man in her darkened bedroom while she wore nothing but a thin shift -- but at the time it had seemed only natural to kiss Peter again. Her kiss did, after all, belong to him, and always would.

This time, however, Peter had kissed her in return, rather than only receiving her soft kiss in surprise as he had done upon the deck of the Jolly Roger. This time, in fact, had been quite different indeed.

Sitting at her window and looking out at the night sky over the slate roofs of London, Wendy touched a wondering finger to the fullness of her lips, remembering the feel of Peter's warm mouth upon hers. He had seemed so different. So ... intense. His arms had held her so tightly to him, making her quite breathless.

She found herself thinking of him often, and dreaming of him in the night as well. In her dreams, he pressed his mouth to hers and their tongues touched once more, and she woke always with her heart beating fast, and an unfamiliar yearning ache in the depths of her body.

Wendy sat often at her window before retiring to bed for the night. But Peter Pan was never there.

* * *

The Lost Boys, though they had not commented, had most definitely noticed that Peter was in a very ill humor. He had more than once threatened to run one of them through with his sword, always for some seemingly unimportant indiscretion.

The Lost Boys had grown very quiet, ever fearing that Peter's next threat might be acted upon, for they were well acquainted with his capriciousness. None of them wished to be spitted on the end of Peter's sword, and so they glanced nervously back and forth among each other and tried to stay out of Peter's way.

* * *

Peter was afraid, and it was a feeling which he did not like one little bit. It made him very irritable. He refused to admit that he was afraid, but the feeling simply refused to go away.

Peter was afraid that Wendy now **knew**.

Peter was afraid that Wendy now knew that something was wrong with him. For, selfish as Peter was, he did know the difference between dream and truth, and he knew that the dream Wendy and the true Wendy were different creatures. Surely the true Wendy had never felt such strange stirrings, and certainly not toward **him**.

She had left him, after all.

And so Peter did not return to Wendy's window, though he longed very much to do so. Instead, he stayed in Neverland, where he tried to stop these strange feelings ... though his dreams tortured him with remembrances of how Wendy had felt in his arms.

Her body had been even softer and warmer than he had imagined. The yielding press of her chest against his bare skin had been more than he had even dreamed. And the touch of her tongue against his ... the merest thought of that moist touch caused his body to harden with longing.

Given this profusion of new information, Peter's dreams had grown even more vivid, even more arousing. He took to sleeping away from the hide-out, lest one of the Lost Boys notice something amiss. Building himself a casual sort of nest high in a tree, Peter slept where he thought himself unobserved, and dreamed his dreams of Wendy.

In his dreams now his hands rose to touch the soft curves of Wendy's chest, sliding down to span her narrow waist, then down further to caress the curve of her hip. All this Peter had felt while holding her in his arms, and so his dreaming imagination supplied additional details.

He dreamt that he hovered over Wendy in her bed, just as he had often dreamed, but he now dreamt of unbuttoning the tiny buttons that held her gown closed in the front, unbuttoning them while she slept, so that she did not know of his guilty interest.

As his dream Wendy slept peacefully, her lashes thickly closed and resting upon her soft cheek, Peter unbuttoned her nightdress all the way to the bottom, and then reverently pulled the cloth aside to bare her body to his curious eyes.

Unfortunately, Peter had little idea what lay beneath Wendy's nightdress, except what he had felt when he held her, and so her body in his dreams was always hidden in shadowy curves. But with her nightdress open, he felt her soft skin against his as he moved nearer to hold her body close.

In his dream, Wendy always woke as his body touched hers, and she smiled a sleepy smile, wrapping her arms around him and pulling him down upon her naked body. Somehow, in the dream, Peter was always naked as well, though whether this occurred suddenly or whether he had been naked from the start of the dream was never quite clear. But what **was** clear was that when Wendy pulled him down to her, their bare bodies pressed hot and smooth together as she moved sinuously against him, her bare legs tangling with his own.

Peter found that he dreamed of Wendy every night, and that he woke nearly always from a gasping, thrashing, throbbing lightning strike, with her name still on his lips and with the increasingly familiar milky substance upon his belly. His eyes were wide as he gazed at the stars through the branches of his tree, his heart pounding as if he had run a very far distance, a slight sweat cooling upon his skin.

Peter in the depths of night found himself often afraid, not knowing what he should do.

* * *

The situation, of course, could not last, for Peter had only so much restraint, and brooding was very poorly suited to his personality.

And so Peter left Neverland to fly once more toward Wendy's window, his skin gleaming in the moonlight from the vigorous bathing he had given it. Suddenly self-conscious, fearing whether Wendy would find his body pleasing as he found hers, conscious of how much of his skin was visible, Peter had washed beneath the waterfall with a determination he usually reserved for fighting pirates.

He did not, however, intend to confront Wendy. He wanted only to find whether her window was latched, for he had pondered this question many times since he had flown from the window so hastily after their kiss. He feared greatly that she would have once again latched the window, in hopes of barring his entrance. And so his heart pounded with hope and uncertainty as he at last approached the Darlings' home.

Peeking in at the nursery window again, Peter saw the many boys in their many beds, snoring their many contented snores, tired from a day of school and games.

Stopping again at Wendy's parents' window, Peter refused to admit that he was delaying. Instead, he insisted to himself that he was merely verifying that all was well. And, indeed, Wendy's parents slept soundly in their bed, their two different snores weaving together as if to form a long-practiced music.

At last, Peter cautiously approached Wendy's window, making every effort to remain concealed from any possible view from within. He need not have bothered, however, for the window was once again open, and Wendy lay where sleep had found her, her head resting upon her arm on the windowsill.

Hovering quite near to her, Peter peered at her face as she slept. Her hair spread out upon the windowsill, and Peter reached out a finger to stroke it ever so lightly.

Why was she at the window? Had she been waiting for him? This seemed by far the best explanation, which left Peter feeling quite arrogant indeed. It was a feeling that suited him far better than uncertainty or fear would ever do. His old familiar cocky grin spread across his face and he tilted his body upward, floating horizontally so that he might more easily put his head into the window and press a soft kiss to Wendy's cheek as she slept.

The light touch, of course, woke her, and she raised her head sleepily as Peter hovered, his leaf-clad body vertical once more, outside her window. He grinned at her, and he looked so like his younger self that Wendy was sure she must still be dreaming. As she had done so many times in her dreams, Wendy reached out to hold Peter's head between her two hands, her fingers sinking into his tousled hair, and she pulled him toward her, pressing her lips to his in a gently passionate kiss.

Peter's eyes went flew open wide and round at this turn of events, for -- though he had been pleased that Wendy's window was not only unlatched but open, and not only open but supporting a sleeping Wendy who had surely been waiting for him -- he had never expected that she would simply grab and kiss him without even speaking a word.

He quickly recovered from his surprise, however, and eagerly twined his own fingers into Wendy's silken hair, slanting his head to the side so that their mouths met more fully as his tongue once more ventured in hopes of tasting hers. Wendy moaned softly into his mouth, caressing his lips with her own tongue and attempting to pull him even closer, but his body was blocked by the windowsill.

As the kiss continued and their tongues tentatively explored each other, Wendy gradually became drowsily aware that she was not, in fact, dreaming, but was kissing a real, true, enthusiastic Peter Pan at her window. She pulled away suddenly, her lips still moist and parted, her fingers still tangled in his hair. She looked at him with dark eyes, her pupils dilated with passion just as Peter's were, and absently licked her lips.

His eyes on her mouth, Peter growled softly at the provoking sight, and twined his fingers more tightly in Wendy's hair, boldly pulling her once again toward him. Wendy smiled slightly, pleasure in her eyes, and went willingly to him, leaning eagerly out her window, their mouths meeting with a heated fervor.

When, after a time, their kiss gradually waned, changing to a series of gentle kisses, as if they could not bear to part entirely, Peter thought to himself that he was very lucky to be hovering outside the window, instead of pressed to Wendy's soft body, for between his legs he had grown quite hard indeed. In fact, he felt quite as if the slightest touch at this moment might send his body shattering with the lightning strike, and so he pulled reluctantly away from Wendy and the window, hovering near enough to hide his problem, but far enough to prevent touching. His hands placed arrogantly upon his hips, Peter made his best attempt at pretending that his blood did not still race in his veins, and that his chest did not move with his rapid breaths.

Wendy blushed, the color making her look only more beautiful, and said quietly, "I did not mean to do that. I was sure I was dreaming."

Unconsciously, Peter hovered closer to the windowsill, his face lit with wonder. "You dream of me?" he asked softly, his voice filled with unexpected hope.

Wendy nodded, her face suffused with an even deeper blush, which seemed to extend into the neck of her nightdress as well. Her eyes were downcast, and Peter wanted to see them again.

"I dream of you, too," Peter confided in a hushed voice, his hands now touching the windowsill.

The admission brought Wendy's eyes up to meet his again, and she looked quite as surprised and pleased as Peter did. "You do?" she whispered.

Peter nodded. "All the time."

Wendy smiled shyly. "Me too."

Peter returned her sweet, glad smile with one of his own.

"What do you dream?" he asked softly, his hopeful eyes watching her face.

But Wendy did not answer, instead pulling away slightly and looking down at her hands, her blush rising again. "What do **you** dream?" she asked him by way of reply.

"Oh!" Peter gasped, his hand rising to his mouth as he realized what he had done. "Um. I dream ... about..." What could he possibly say? Should he lie? His heart was pounding now not with passion but with nerves.

"Yes, Peter?" Wendy's eyes were large as she watched him expectantly. She looked so beautiful framed in the window like that, the moonlight shining on her skin.

"I dream about kissing you," he whispered hesitantly. "And ... other things." This time it was he who looked away.

"What other things?"

Peter kept his gaze averted, not wanting to see if she became disgusted or angry. "Holding you," he admitted quietly. "And ... touching you." Then, his head coming up stubbornly, Peter asked, "What do **you** dream?"

Wendy looked down again, which was beginning to irritate Peter slightly. She bit her lip in hesitation, making Peter want to lick her lip where she had bitten it, wanting to test the feel of her teeth and lips and tongue upon his mouth and skin. Peter Pan had always been, after all, quite easily distracted.

"The same," Wendy breathed.

"The same?" asked Peter, confused. "The same as what?"

"The same as you," Wendy explained, looking up into his eyes.

"The same as me?" Peter's eyes were very round, and his heart thumped as if it might burst through his chest at any moment. "You dream ... the same as me?"

Wendy blushed again and nodded. "I doubt it is **exactly** the same, of course."

Peter nodded numbly, barely hearing what she had said. Wendy dreamt of him as he dreamt of her? Peter flew away from the window far enough to turn several exuberant somersaults and swooping circles in mid-air, laughing joyfully as he did so.

Wendy grinned at his antics, even as she nervously shushed him lest he wake her family.

"Come with me!" Peter flew to hover before her again, his smile wide and engaging.

"Come where?" asked Wendy, surprised by this sudden demand.

But Peter only smiled, extending his hand to her. "Let's fly!" His grin grew even more charming, tempting her most awfully.

"I have forgotten how," Wendy hesitated.

"I'll hold you," Peter replied promptly. "I'll keep you safe. Come with me, Wendy. Fly with me!"

And Wendy found that, though she tried, she could not deny him. With a smile that echoed his own, she took his proffered hand and allowed herself to be pulled into his arms, against his warm body.

And with their arms thusly around each other, their smiling faces close together, away they flew over the slate gray roofs of London.


	4. Among the Wild Roses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case anyone is still confused, Wendy and Peter are both 16-17 years old at this point in the story, though age in Peter's case is sort of meaningless, since he has aged based on thought/feeling instead of time. Let's just say he **looks** 16-17. Jeremy Sumpter at the time of the film, plus a year or two. :)
> 
> Just in case you're squeamish, in England during this time (1900's), 16 was the age of consent, and so a 16-year-old girl or boy was considered old enough to make their own decisions about sex and marriage. In fact, 16 is still the age of consent in England today.

Drunk with the joy that Wendy shared his amorous feelings, Peter soared through the night air with her in his arms, turning spectacular loops and dives to make her cling to him more tightly, which brought an even bigger smile to his face.

As Peter flew so fast and so far that London's slate roofs were left behind them, Wendy became concerned, asking Peter, "Where are we going?"

But Peter only smiled at her and pressed his lips to hers in a quick kiss. "Trust me."

And despite his familiar bent toward mischief, Wendy found that she **did** trust Peter. She knew that he would not do anything to harm her, nor would he steal her away without her permission. Even when she had decided to leave Neverland, he had respected her wishes. And so she trusted him, nestling comfortably against his warm body as they flew Wendy knew not where.

Wendy saw a river shining silver beneath them, and wondered if it was the familiar Thames, broken free of smoky London to stretch and bend unfettered among the fields and hedgerows. Wendy liked to think that it was, for she too felt that she had been delivered from some invisible restraint, and so she laughed with delight as the wind blew her hair streaming behind her like a silken flag. She had quite forgotten how thrilling it was to fly!

Peter at last landed upon a grassy hillside overlooking the ocean, setting Wendy gently upon her bare feet once more. Turning her within his arms, he showed her the water that extended as far as the eye could see.

Wendy's only experience with the seaside had been during her visit to Neverland, and so she gazed out upon the moonlit water with awe. The sound of the waves crashing was strange and beautiful to her, and she found that she could even smell and taste the ocean's salt in the balmy breezes that touched her skin.

"Oh, Peter! It's lovely!" She smiled up at him, and his arms wrapped more securely around her waist, pulling her back against his front.

Resting his chin companionably on top of her head, Peter pointed to the water. "See there?"

Wendy looked where he indicated, and saw a mountain that rose high out of the ocean waves, and at the top of the mountain was a castle that gleamed in the moonlight, like something out of a fairy story. Wendy gasped with wonder.

Peter sat gracefully upon the ground, pulling Wendy with him so that she sat in the shelter of his crossed legs, her own legs hanging over his and her back leaning against his chest. Her long nightdress seemed almost to glow in the darkness, her toes barely peeking from beneath its hem.

The grass was tall around them, nearly as tall as Wendy's shoulder, and sown liberally with creeping wild roses that permeated the salty air with their own musky sweet scent. Peter leaned his chin upon Wendy's shoulder, looking out at the water and the mysterious castle, holding her closely to him. The fear excitement had tightened in his belly again, seeming to anticipate something Peter could not identify. He did not know what might happen between them in this beautiful moonlit place, and so he had pulled Wendy into his lap such that she could not see his uncertain expression.

Wendy tilted her head slightly to the side, so that her cheek touched Peter's as they both looked out toward the ocean. The way Peter held her made her feel cherished, but it also stirred a nervous excitement within her. She watched the waves lapping at the base of the fairy tale mountain, and she listened to her heart beat loudly in her ears. She wondered if Peter could hear it.

The tension between them grew thick as the silence extended far past what was comfortable. At last Peter, unable to bear the suspense any longer, put his hand gently upon Wendy's cheek and turned her face toward him, leaning awkwardly so that he could press his lips to hers. Wendy, seduced by their romantic surroundings as Peter had hoped she might be, turned sideways in his lap, so that her legs now draped over his left thigh, and tilted her face to grant him better access.

Peter, however, his hand still resting upon Wendy's cheek, slowly pressed numerous gentle kisses to her lips, traveling from one side to the other, as if he were exploring every tiny crevice and curve of that exquisitely sensitive surface. He then pressed a soft kiss to each of her eyelids, her eyes fluttering closed to accommodate him as he tenderly smoothed her hair back from her face.

His heart aching in his chest, Peter felt that he had never seen anything so exquisite as Wendy in his arms at this moment, her eyes shining in the moonlight, the grasses and roses surrounding them like a fragrant thicket of green and white. He felt almost as if Wendy had somehow caught his breath. Or caught his heart. His eyes uncharacteristically solemn, he again pressed his lips worshipfully to the right-hand corner of Wendy's mouth, the corner that held his kiss.

Wendy. **His** Wendy. How lovely and how precious she was. And though he had denied it in the past, Peter knew in his heart at that moment that he loved her.

Wendy seemed puzzled by his odd seriousness, tilting her head curiously and opening her mouth to say something, but Peter pressed his finger to her lips and smiled softly, leaning forward then to press his lips to hers with a banked passion which had been only waiting to flame brightly once more.

His lips were warm and demanding upon hers, and this sudden intensity, especially following such a gentle and beguiling seduction of soft kisses, caused desire to curl within Wendy's belly, caused her to want much more than kisses from Peter Pan, though she was not quite certain what that more might be. She knew the basics of how a man and woman fit together, but what she felt in her body now was far more primal than the clinical descriptions she had heard.

Finding herself quite overcome by this sudden searing heat, Wendy struggled to her knees beside Peter, watching him with wide, hesitant eyes as she pulled out of his arms. Her shining hair streamed about her, dark against her nightdress, and her hands were trembling. Drawing labored breaths, she moved to sit beside the baffled boy, gazing out at the ocean once more, and then abruptly lay flat upon the ground, comfortably cushioned by the grasses as she watched the sky above her, dense with far more stars than were visible in London. She pressed one hand to her racing heart, willing it to slow.

Perplexed by Wendy's sudden withdrawal, and wondering if he had done something wrong, Peter watched her for a long moment before at last lying upon his back beside her, so that they were now entirely hidden within the tall grass and flowers. After several silent minutes had passed, Peter asked tentatively without looking away from the stars, "Why did you stop?"

Sighing softly, Wendy, also still staring at the sky, admitted, "I was afraid."

"Afraid of me?" Peter had turned upon his side to face her, leaning up on one elbow with a worried frown.

Turning her head to look at him, Wendy said very quietly, "No, Peter."

"Then what? Maybe I can fix it."

Wendy smiled slightly at that, but explained in a soft whisper, "I was afraid of how I felt."

"How you felt? Why? How did you feel?" Peter thought he might have an idea of what she had felt, if it was anything like what he himself had been feeling, but he wanted to hear what Wendy would say.

Wendy blushed in the moonlight, turning her face up to once more gaze at the stars. "I like it when you kiss me," she replied softly, avoiding the full truth.

"I like it, too," answered Peter readily, impatient with her refusals to speak openly. Of course, in truth he himself had been no more forthcoming, but it has never been said that Peter Pan was entirely fair in his expectations.

Peter watched her for a long silent moment, frustrated that she would not look at him. At length he asked frankly, "So, since we both like it ... shall I kiss you again?"

Despite her fears and reservations, despite her fleeting thoughts of what Mother would think, Wendy followed the pull of her heart and her body, and shyly nodded.

Peter grinned.

Scooting his body closer to hers, Peter lay still upon his side, facing Wendy with his head supported on his hand as he gazed down at her with innocent eagerness gleaming in his eyes. He licked his lips, and seeing his action Wendy licked her own lips nervously. A mischievous smile flitted across Peter's face, as if they had been playing a game and he had just realized that he had won.

Rising onto his hands and knees, Peter crawled to loom over Wendy for a moment, just drinking in the sight of her, with her hair spread out upon the grass and her pink lips shining wet in the moonlight. The heady scent of ocean and wild roses surrounded them, and her eyes gazing up at him were very very blue, just as they had always been in his dreams. His body began to thrum with excitement as he knelt there, before he had even touched her.

Peter flew some little distance above Wendy's body and hovered there, his body aligned with hers, so that he could leave both his hands free to cup her face as he slowly lowered his head to kiss her lips.

As if a match had been set to tinder, their kiss flamed quickly, perhaps because they had been so slow to begin. Wendy reached up to twine her bare arms around Peter's neck, just as she had done so often in his dreams, pulling him down toward her so that their bodies touched all along their lengths. As he felt his skin come to rest against Wendy's thin nightdress, Peter moaned into her mouth, his kiss suddenly growing harder and more urgent.

He felt as if he was burning, as if his entire body was on fire. He felt restless, wanting to move his body, but unsure what might frighten Wendy. He did not rest his weight on her, but instead floated so that their bodies were just barely touching. But as Wendy returned his kisses with equal fervor, their tongues eagerly tangling and tasting each other, her tongue stroking the inside of his lips, the roof of his mouth, touching everywhere everywhere everywhere, Peter began to lose his tenuous grip on his own control.

He pulled gently away from Wendy's mouth, allowing his lips to trace a trail to her neck, to the soft place just below her ear. Licking and nibbling her skin, he allowed his hands to tenderly grasp her waist, spanning it easily with his fingers. Wendy sighed at his ministrations to her neck, arching her back slightly, restless for more sensation.

Peter raised his chest slightly away from her, his lower body thereby pressing into her more firmly. Wendy instinctively moved her legs slightly apart so that he might settle between them, and Peter gasped in shock at the jolt of pleasure sent through his body by that touch. Wendy lay beneath him, her hair spread about her like a silken pillow, her blue eyes dark with desire, her lips swollen with his kisses, her body arching subtly as if to offer herself to him.

Peter swallowed nervously, and then leaned to press another kiss to Wendy's lips, his hands meanwhile coming to hover, trembling, just over the curves of her chest. He hesitated, heart racing. And then Wendy arched her back again, and suddenly his hands were filled with warm, soft flesh covered in only the thinnest of fabric.

Wendy's eyes opened wide at the feel of his hands upon her. She saw that Peter's eyes were wide, as well, as he watched to see whether she would flee again. But her body ached for him to touch her, and her mind was drunk with longing, and so she deliberately closed her eyes again and pulled him down for another fevered kiss.

Peter sank into the kiss as if he were drowning, his hands gently stroking the firm curves of Wendy's breasts, his body reaching highs exceeding anything he had felt before this. Not even knowing that he did so, he rubbed and ground his hips against Wendy's as their kisses grew fast and deep. Both of them made small wordless noises into each other's mouths and against each other's flesh, for Wendy too licked a trail upon Peter's skin, finding that it tasted faintly of salt and sunlight. She gently tested her teeth upon the skin of his neck, and Peter bucked helplessly at the sensation, his control abruptly shattering.

His hands still filled with Wendy's warm breasts, her small teeth pressing to his neck, his hardness pressed tightly to the space between her legs, Peter suddenly felt himself unexpectedly splinter and fly apart into a thousand stars, struck by the lightning when he had not even realized it was coming. In the blindness of his pleasure, he ground himself harder between Wendy's legs as his body exploded and he arched his back, squeezing his eyes tightly shut and crying out sharp and loud as if he were in pain.

When his body and mind slowly began to gather together from the tiny pieces into which they had shattered, Peter found himself slumped upon Wendy, who lay very still. Suddenly embarrassed, he raised his head to look at her. She was watching him with a very worried expression, and she asked uncertainly, "Did I hurt you?"

Peter blushed. He couldn't help it. "No," he replied. But he couldn't bring himself to explain what had happened. What if there really was something wrong with him? What if she saw the strange milky substance now uncomfortably slickening the inside of the leaves he wore? Peter abruptly rolled off of Wendy's body, terribly self-conscious.

"Peter, what happened? Is something wrong?" Wendy was beginning to sound hurt, which tore at Peter's heart. He bit his lip, not wanting to explain, but not able to tolerate hurting Wendy.

"Nothing is wrong," he mumbled, lying flat on his back to stare up at the stars once more. "This happens sometimes. When I think about you."

" **What** happens?" Wendy was growing increasingly concerned that something was terribly wrong and Peter was just refusing to tell her. The lingering excitement that had thrummed through her body had cooled quickly when she realized that something was amiss.

Peter swallowed audibly. Wendy lay on her side now, raised up on one elbow to look at him where he lay. He wished she wouldn't look at him. It would make it easier to explain.

"I ... I feel ... it feels ... good ... and then ... it's as if lightning strikes me."

"Lightning? Does it hurt?"

"No, no, it doesn't hurt. It feels ... it feels ... good." It was a ridiculous understatement, but Peter found himself quite unable to explain.

"So, when you cried out, while we were ... that felt good?"

"Oh, yes!" Peter responded quickly. Again, ridiculous understatement, but he had no idea how to rectify the situation.

He did not know how best to explain, even if he had felt comfortable doing so. He could not **show** her, for he had noticed when pressed to her body that she had nothing between her legs. Strangely, though, her nightdress there had seemed wet when he pulled away from her, even though his own liquid substance remained within the leaves he wore.

He wondered at the source of the moistness between Wendy's legs. He wondered at what lay beneath her nightdress. He wondered if there was any way to make Wendy feel the lightning strike, so that she might understand.

Peter smirked at his thoughts. His unwelcome and unwonted self-conscious nervousness vanished into the soft night air, accompanied by the scent of ocean and wild roses.

He was quite determined to discover the answers to **all** of his questions, if Wendy let him.

And he had the distinct and decidedly pleasant feeling that she would.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The place Wendy and Peter visit in this chapter is called St. Michael's Mount, and it is located in Cornwall, in the southwest of England, quite near Penzance (of Gilbert and Sullivan pirate fame).


	5. An Unconventional Courtship

Wendy woke the next morning in time for breakfast, but she felt so sleepy that she claimed she wasn't feeling well and sent Mother away, staying instead to luxuriate beneath her white quilted bedclothes with a wonderfully secretive smile upon her face.

She had asked Peter to bring her home soon after he had behaved so strangely. He said he hadn't felt pain, but she had seen his face -- so shocked in the throes of some sudden torment -- and heard his animal-like cry, and she was not sure if she should believe him. Some strange thrill had thrummed within her at the sound of his groan, but she did not understand why. She was certain he was hiding something from her, but she had not been able to determine what it might be. He could be so frustrating sometimes!

Until his strange behavior, however, it had all been so very lovely! The hillside overlooking the fairy castle, the wild roses perfuming the air, the tall grass that surrounded them like a fragrant refuge from the world's eyes ... it had all filled Wendy with a yearning she could not resist.

Wendy knew that some day soon she would be expected to choose a man to be her husband, a man with whom she would spend the rest of her life. Since she had come of age, at every ball and party and dinner she attended she had been presented to a seemingly endless parade of identically unremarkable but eligible young gentlemen.

They all wore the same starched shirts, the same vests with fashionable pocket watches, the same straight-creased trousers, the same primly buttoned jackets, the same snugly knotted ties, and the same fatuous facial expressions. They all said the same things -- _I say, pleasant weather we're having, Miss Darling! That dress is most becoming, Miss Darling! What a charming lot of brothers you have, Miss Darling! You dance most divinely, Miss Darling! Shall we have a walk in the garden, Miss Darling?_ \-- which frequently made Wendy feel that she might scream with boredom.

But Wendy knew that it was her duty to choose a proper husband, and she therefore would do so. Her parents could not, after all, be expected to support her forever, particularly given the large number of fast-growing boys they were raising.

Yes, Wendy knew that it would be her duty to choose a husband soon, most likely a fashionably-dressed young gentleman with a fatuous expression who spoke to her of the weather.

But, until that day, was there any harm in giving herself some small, precious joy to press secretly to her heart forever after, to last her through a lifetime of politeness and propriety?

Was there any harm in allowing herself these stolen moments with Peter Pan?

If there was, she refused to think of it. Soon enough would come duty. For now, she wanted only to truly **live** , to follow the call of her heart ... while she still could.

* * *

Peter, of course, felt no such hesitations or concerns in the wake of their evening among the wild roses, for no rules applied to his thoughts or behavior.

Peter lived quite as if he were the first man ever to exist in a pristine paradise, hemmed in by no expectations, doctrines, ideologies, or protocols. He was a living, breathing, feeling creature, and he behaved according to his nature. Just as the first man took the first woman to wife without benefit of church steeple or magistrate, Peter had taken Wendy to wife within his heart and with his body.

He would not have phrased his feelings and actions in such words however, for in the chaotic jumble of his thoughts and emotions he could clearly identify only one certainty above all:

He wanted Wendy.

He was not entirely sure exactly what it was that he wanted, but he knew most definitely that he wanted **Wendy**.

He wanted to hold her tightly in his arms and kiss her until her lips were red and swollen, until her eyes looked up at him again with that dizzyingly wordless beg for more.

He wanted to stroke her mysteriously curved body beneath her nightdress, wanted to touch and taste every inch of her skin until he knew her so thoroughly that she was almost a part of him.

He wanted to again hear her soft moans of desire, to hear them grow louder and more insistent as he learned ways to give her even greater pleasure than before.

He wanted to hear her gasp his name, moan his name, cry his name aloud because of his touch.

He wanted to be there when she felt the lightning strike, if he could find a way to make it happen. He wanted to watch her face, to see what that exquisite ecstasy looked like in her lovely eyes.

He wanted to feel her tongue and teeth once more upon his skin, sending wild shivers all through his body.

And he wanted to learn how it would feel to have **her** hands, instead of his own, stroke his hardened flesh.

He wanted obscure, mysterious things for which he had no words, but only instinctive urges and intimations.

Given one intoxicating taste of passion, he wanted **more**. He wanted so deeply that it seemed he could feel the want tighten more hungrily in his body with every passing moment.

In short, to repeat, he wanted **Wendy**.

And he was fairly certain that she wanted him, too.

* * *

The next night, Peter flew to Wendy's window again, a confident smirk upon his lips and a devilish light in his blue-green eyes.

Wendy was waiting for him at the window, as he had hoped she would be, her long hair flowing in front and behind her in glossy rivers that shone like silk against the cotton of her white nightdress.

Peter, hovering silent before her, could not help but reach out a finger to stroke that shining softness, just as he had done when he had found her sleeping upon the windowsill. Had it truly been only the previous night? It seemed so very long ago, for so much had happened between them since.

At Peter's touch upon her hair, Wendy smiled her most lovely, sweetest smile.

Reaching down to take her hand in his, Peter whispered eagerly, "Come with me!"

But Wendy shook her head, explaining apologetically, "Peter, I can't. I need to sleep, or else Mother shall grow suspicious when I am so tired again."

Peter frowned most annoyedly. He had once thought that Mothers were a fine thing, but now they seemed more of an inconvenience than they could possibly be worth. "So are you sending me away?" he asked with a definite sulk in his voice. Peter did not like being refused what he wanted. He never had. It was, perhaps, the most unpleasant of all unpleasant things, for it had no edge of enjoyment to it as many other unpleasant things do. Pirates can be battled, pain can be bravely endured, wounds can heal to impressive scars, defeat in one battle can simply whet the appetite for the next ... but disappointment -- **true** disappointment -- no, there is nothing even remotely enjoyable about that.

But Wendy was leaning forward, her hand warmly squeezing his, her other hand reaching toward his face, and Peter could not help but smile at the welcome he saw quite clearly upon her lips. He floated closer to the window so that her hand could press gently to his cheek.

"Kiss me, Peter," whispered Wendy with that sweet smile, and Peter could not deny her.

* * *

Peter visited Wendy's window every night, and every night they talked and exchanged passionate kisses, and every night Peter tried to tempt Wendy to come out to fly with him, but Wendy demurely insisted that she needed to sleep, that she mustn't leave.

In truth, despite her rational decision to steal what happiness she could from this brief time with Peter Pan, Wendy had grown rather frightened of the feelings stirred within her by their night on the grassy hillside. Though she had sometimes felt faint whisperings within her body before, often in response to her dreams of Peter, she had never felt the deep pulse of desire he had wakened with his kisses and his touch of her body beneath the stars in their bower of grass and wild roses.

Since that night, her dreams had grown more sensual and more disturbing, only intensifying her nervous hesitation. She dreamt again and again of Peter's hands upon her bare skin, his lips murmuring impassioned words against her flesh, his long legs twining with hers, his strong chest pressing against her aching breasts, his hips moving with a desperate, dark urgency between her legs.

In her dreams, feeling herself writhe beneath his bare and leanly muscular body, she felt almost as if she were flying through the sky again in his arms, and she often woke panting and slicked with sweat, her heart beating a rapid tattoo in her chest, a throbbing ache between her thighs.

She was, if truth be known, frightened by how very much she **wanted** to be touched again by Peter.

This fear, along with her confusion over Peter's mysterious shout of not-pain and his subsequent collapse upon her body, caused Wendy to hesitate to venture again beyond heated kisses at the window, despite her own longing.

But, like a persistent suitor, Peter arrived each night, freshly scrubbed -- for Wendy had indeed noticed that his hands, and presumably other parts, were no longer so grimed with dirt as they had once been -- and often bearing gifts. One night it was a crown woven of vines and pale blue flowers, which Peter told her were blue as the color of her eyes. Another night it was a bracelet of rich pink pearls, which Peter told her had been found and chosen for her by the mermaids themselves, to match his description of the color of her lips.

And then, one warm and cloudless night, Peter brought her two particularly seductive gifts: a fragrant white wild rose ... and a small pouch filled with fairy dust. As he leaned near, Wendy could smell the faint tang of ocean salt upon his skin, bringing a surge of remembered pleasure shivering through her. He touched the rose softly to her lips, his eyes filled with some unspoken entreaty, some unspoken promise, and he then twined the slender stem into her hair so that the flower was suspended above her right ear.

Peter did not speak for long moments, his eyes intent upon Wendy's as if he were searching for some answer to his heart's entreaty. At length, finding some wordless reply in those clear blue depths, he suddenly smiled, his mood lightening instantaneously from hopeful intensity to confident anticipation.

Floating outside her window, once again sporting that same smug grin that somehow never failed to charm her, Peter slowly and deliberately emptied the bag of fairy dust into his flattened hand. "Come with me," he coaxed, his eyes now bright and mischievous as stars. "Come fly with me, Wendy!"

And Wendy, bewitched by the wild rose in her hair and the scent of ocean upon Peter's skin, found at last that she could no longer resist -- no longer **wished** to resist -- and so she smiled, and nodded, and Peter grinned with a shout of triumph, Wendy finding herself in the next moment showered with sparkling magic, her stomach aflutter with nervous excitement at the thought of what might now happen between them on this warm and starry summer night.

With a shy smile, the fairy-dusted Wendy flew forward from the window to take Peter's hand, and away they soared above the gray slate roofs of London, and beyond.


	6. Differences

Peter guided them to the same grassy hillside that overlooked the mountain castle in the sea, and when they landed lightly upon the ground, he took Wendy's hand with an eager smile. "Come, look!" he urged her, tugging upon her hand so that she followed him, her long nightdress trailing through the tall grass.

And then suddenly they broke through the grass into a small clearing, in which grasses had been woven and twisted, plaited and twined, to form a sort of cushioned nest just large enough for the both of them to lie down. Wendy looked at Peter with a question in her eyes, and Peter shrugged with a cocky grin. She wondered how long he had spent making this fragrant natural bed for them, bordered by wild roses perfuming the night. It was lovely, and yet it also intensified the nervous flutter in her belly.

She wanted to be with him, to touch him and be touched, but she was not quite sure how to begin. She looked down at the dark grasses so cool beneath her bare feet, and bit her lip.

Peter squeezed her hand gently, as if giving some silent reassurance, and pulled her toward him. Wendy's head came up, and she looked into his eyes in that brief moment before he took her in his arms and held her close to his chest.

And with that touch, with that gentle embrace, Wendy knew. This was right.

Nothing had ever been more right.

* * *

Peter stroked his hands through Wendy's silken hair, soothing her as he would a skittish animal. He could sense her tension, her nervous hesitation, and he could also sense when it dissipated at his touch.

Caressing Wendy's cheek softly with one finger, Peter tilted her face up to him and leaned his head down to press a tender, chaste kiss upon her trembling lips. He did not want for her to be frightened.

"Let us sit, Peter," she said shyly. "You needn't lean down so far."

But rather than sit, Wendy lay down upon the grassy bed Peter had made for her, her skin and gown pale against the dark green that looked nearly black in the moonlight. She reached up her hand in invitation, and Peter took it, kneeling upon the grass and then lying down on his side, half-leaning over her.

With his hand absently stroking her far shoulder, Peter pressed brief, gentle kisses to Wendy's lips again and again, waiting until he might feel some indication that Wendy wanted more. It was not long.

When he felt her tongue hesitantly touch his lips, Peter opened for her gladly, waiting until her tongue took the initiative in exploring his mouth before allowing himself to greet her as enthusiastically as he wanted to do. Soon their tongues tangled together in a slow, sensual dance that left them both breathless when they parted.

Her eyes wide and dark as she looked up at Peter, Wendy deliberately took his hand in hers, and then moved it so that his palm was pressed to her cotton-clad breast. Peter's eyes closed as he savored the sensation, moving his hand oh-so-slightly so that he felt the hardened nipple beneath the fabric.

He had tried to imagine what Wendy's breasts might look like, for he was familiar with his own nipples and their tendency to harden, particularly in cold weather. But he wanted to know, wanted to see, wanted to touch with no clothing between them.

Leaning down to kiss Wendy for long moments, their breaths mingling, their sighs swallowed by each other's mouths, Peter at length raised his head again to look down at her, his lips wet, his eyes bright with entreaty. He reached for the top button of her nightdress and slowly unbuttoned it, watching her eyes all the while, waiting for permission or refusal. What he saw instead was a flare of heat, assuring him that despite her hesitations she wanted this as much as he.

Wendy raised her hands then to tangle in his tousled hair, pulling his head down for a long, passionate kiss that made Peter almost forget what his hand had been doing. With some difficulty, Peter divided his attention between Wendy's extremely distracting kiss and his attempts to continue unbuttoning her nightdress.

Unfortunately, he found that his fingers were clumsy with eagerness and he had too little experience with buttons, and so the tiny circles kept eluding his grasp. Before his frustration could grow, however, Wendy pulled gently away from his lips and brought her hands down from his head. Once again smiling the sweet smile that always made Peter's heart skip a beat, her eyes gazing intently into his, Wendy lowered her hands to her nightdress and began to carefully unbutton it, each button slipping through her fingers with a hushed silence that caused Peter's blood to thrum faster and faster through his body. He held himself almost entirely motionless, even his breath suspended, but he could not hide the hunger in his eyes or the eager shaking of his hands.

When Wendy had unbuttoned her nightdress as far as her waist, she once again took Peter's hand. Still holding his gaze, her eyes solemn as if this were a sacred ceremony, Wendy slipped his hand inside her nightdress and pressed it to her bare breast.

Peter did not move at first. Wendy's hand withdrew, leaving his alone in that soft and mysterious place, and Peter felt as if he had been given some precious gift, that in sharing her body with him Wendy was also sharing something more. Something important.

But in the next moment all such thoughts were lost, for he could think of nothing but the beautiful girl who was tugging his head down for another kiss. Her warm lips moved against his with greater urgency than before, as if she too had been fired by the feel of his hand on her flesh.

Peter stroked her breast hesitantly, her nipple hard as a pebble against his palm, and Wendy made a soft, eager noise in her throat, deepening her kiss even further. Emboldened by her response, Peter slowly flew up into the air, never breaking the embrace of their lips, so that he once more hovered above her as he had in his dreams. He wanted both of his hands free.

Gently, slowly, reverently, Peter opened her nightdress wide until the buttons stopped him near her waist. His mouth still pressed to hers, he could not see what he had bared, but he was still able to brush caresses against her skin again and again, senses finely attuned to her responses. With every gasp, every quiver, every slight arch of her back, Wendy told him of her pleasure in what he was doing, inflaming Peter's own passion even further.

When Wendy's hands stroked his hair and then gracefully dropped to the grass on either side of her head, her palms vulnerable in their openness to the sky, Peter gave her one more kiss before drawing his head back to see what Wendy so generously offered to his gaze.

His tongue nervously moistened his lips as he saw for the first time the curves of Wendy's breasts. They were pale and beautiful, tipped with nipples that looked like coral in the moonlight. Peter glanced hesitantly up at Wendy's eyes, which seemed to regard him with a gentle permission that outshone the warring shyness. "Yes," she whispered with a slight tremor in her voice. "Please."

Lowering his head, Peter tasted the skin of Wendy's breast, both curve and nipple, and found them to taste, like her lips, of starlight. Her shaking hands came to hold his head, her fingers twining into his tangled hair, not pressing his head toward her, but rather simply holding him, caressing his scalp as he caressed her body.

Pressing his face between her breasts, Peter breathed deep, inhaling the scent of Wendy, more concentrated than he had smelled it before. He wanted always to smell that scent, to take it into his own skin so that it was a part of him. He never wanted that scent to leave him. The scent of Wendy's skin. The scent of his love.

Bringing his lips once more to hers, he kissed Wendy eagerly, bringing his hands to frame her face, so that his bare chest lay against hers. At the first touch of her breasts against his bare skin, Peter jerked slightly in surprised reaction. In the next instant, however, he seemed almost to devour Wendy's mouth with his, meeting her own desire with his own, his body lowering to press against hers, her legs once again parting to allow him to lie between.

Peter's body was throbbing with need, but he was trying desperately to fend off the build toward the lightning strike. The last time, Wendy had insisted that he take her home immediately afterward, and he did not want for this night to end. Afraid that it might happen unexpectedly, as it had their previous night on this hillside, Peter nervously decided to speak.

Disengaging his lips gently from hers, he began hesitantly, "Wendy?"

"Yes, Peter?" Her voice was husky, and her eyes in the moonlight seemed almost a physical touch, both combining to send a shiver down his spine.

"What happened last time," he ventured. "It will probably happen again." Her arms came up to hold him, her hands caressing his bare back. Peter's eyes closed at the feeling, his mouth opening in a soft moan.

"What do you mean?" Wendy asked, now tilting her head upon her grassy bed, watching him with some confusion.

Peter opened his eyes once more to look down at her. "When I ... I cried out..." he stammered, regretting that he had even broached the subject. Perhaps he could have simply prevented the lightning strike somehow, and thereby avoided this awkward conversation.

"When you seemed to be in pain?"

"Wendy, it isn't pain. It's ... it's ... pleasure. It feels good when you touch me, when I touch you. It isn't painful. When it happens ... it's ... wonderful." A faint blush touched Peter's cheeks before vanishing again into the night.

Wendy whispered softly, "Wonderful?"

Peter nodded, gazing down at her with a hunger neither of them truly understood. "I wish I could show you. I ... I dream about it."

"You dream about giving me pleasure?" Peter nodded. "But, Peter, you **do**."

Shaking his head vigorously, Peter insisted, "This is different."

Wendy hesitated a long moment before asking quietly, "Show me?"

Peter cursed his stupidity for having begun this conversation. He felt like an idiot. He loathed admitting when he didn't know things, and usually avoided such situations at all costs. "I don't know how," he admitted, nearly gritting his teeth at the humbling admission.

A small furrow appeared on Wendy's normally smooth brow. "What?"

Peter floated slowly down to lay once again by Wendy's side, his bent elbow allowing him to rest his chin upon his hand. He did not meet her eyes.

"You aren't the same down there," he mumbled.

"What did you say, Peter?"

"Well," Peter's lips tightened and his brows drew together. He was determined to explain this if it might be his way to learning how to make Wendy cry out as she had in his dreams. "When I feel pleasure, it ... it ... well ... there's this one part of my body ... and it feels best ... there ... and I think that's where the feeling comes from..." He hesitated, not wanting to hurt or embarrass Wendy by pointing out her missing parts. But she was still watching him expectantly.

Gesturing vaguely below Wendy's waist, Peter mumbled, "You don't have anything down there."

Wendy frowned. She knew of the differences between men's and women's bodies. She had, after all, seen her brother Michael flee bathtime on countless occasions, only to be chased persistently by Nana.

When Wendy had come of age, her mother had also explained how men and women came together, but there had been no discussion of pleasure. Wendy knew that Peter was different between his legs than she was, and why ... but she was beginning to wonder if what he was describing was somehow related to the throbbing she felt after her more exciting dreams, and when they kissed at the window.

"Peter," Wendy began patiently, "men and women have different ... anatomy. You have a ... er ... you have what you have ... and I have ... something ... different."

Peter did not find this vague explanation in any way helpful. Wendy had something different? Were they even talking about the same thing? He hadn't felt anything between her legs when he had been pressed against her body. He wondered if she might be lying for some reason, trying to hide something from him. Perhaps even making fun of him.

Having little shyness about his own body now that he had a point to make, Peter loosed the leaves from around his hips and legs, and let them fall away. Between his legs he was still hard and hot and eager, despite their uncomfortable conversation. He gestured to himself and explained impatiently, "You don't have that."

Her shocked eyes momentarily diverted by the size and girth of the appendage in question -- for it certainly looked nothing like Michael's -- Wendy nonetheless became quickly impatient, too. "I know that!" she snapped. "I'm not an imbecile."

Peter narrowed his eyes. Had she just insulted him? This conversation was decidedly out of control.

"Women have something else between their legs," she explained with a deep blush which she endeavored to ignore in the interest of clearing up this confusion.

Peter eyed her in obvious disbelief. "I didn't feel anything there," he accused.

Wendy's eyes went round. "When were you feeling there?" she squeaked.

Peter rolled his eyes. "When I was between your legs, dummy."

"Do not call me a 'dummy'," Wendy replied frostily.

"This whole conversation is stupid," scoffed Peter. "I don't know why, but you're lying. I didn't feel anything there. I'm not an 'imbecile', either, you know." If nothing else, the conversation had served to dampen his own physical excitement. He no longer felt even remotely near to a lightning strike.

Wendy leapt abruptly to her feet, nearly knocking Peter over onto his back. He stared up at her in offended surprise. What was she doing now?

Much to his shock, she began angrily unbuttoning her nightdress the rest of the way. When she had reached somewhere about her thighs, she simply let the gown drop and stepped out of it, her face defiant.


	7. Show Me

Silence reigned for long moments. The air was richly scented with tangy ocean salt, the musk of wild roses, and the clean scent of fresh green grass. A breeze dallied among the tall grasses, setting them to whispering and pausing to lift Wendy's hair here and there in ethereal tendrils.

Somewhere nearby, a cricket chirped insistently. _Chirrup. Chirrup. Chirrup._

Wendy fought the sudden desperate urge to grab her nightdress before her and flee. She could not find her way home alone, even if the fairy dust had given her the ability to fly, and anyway she refused to behave with so little dignity. Having decided to take what pleasure she could from this precious time with Peter Pan, she would not now let missish modesty betray her. She stood firm.

And, anyway, in some small proud part of her heart, she rejoiced at the awe in Peter's eyes.

Peter stared mutely at the pale body which had haunted his dreams for so long. The curves were no longer shrouded in the shadows of the unknown, but instead were clearly illuminated and silvered by the moon and stars. Wendy's body. Wendy's body, revealed at last. Wendy's body, all graceful curves and hollows, all warm and sweet and naked for **him**.

Peter felt somehow honored. Blessed. Perhaps even unworthy, though he would never admit to the thought. For how could the great Pan be in any way unworthy?

His eyes traveled the length of her body, lingering curiously at the dark triangle of hair where her legs joined. He too had hair there, but she seemed to have more than he, and it was darker.

Quite forgetting their argument and its subject, Peter rose slowly to his feet and came to stand before Wendy, his body tall and lean beside her slim curves. He stood only inches away, and an intensity radiated from him, a humming energy as of power only barely contained.

Peter wet his lips, looking down into Wendy's eyes, and then hesitantly brought his hands to her waist, noticing curiously how his long fingers could easily span that narrow circumference. From her waist, he then allowed his hands to slide downward over her smooth skin, curiously caressing the gentle curve of her hips. Allowing his hands to wander once more upward to cradle her breasts, Peter at last moved slightly to close the distance between their bodies, and leaned his head down to tenderly claim Wendy's lips in a sweetly yearning kiss. With their bodies now pressed together, Peter slid his hands around to Wendy's back, holding her with his arms touching as much of her bare skin as possible.

When Peter trailed his mouth away from Wendy's so that he might nuzzle her neck and ear, Wendy -- still attempting to explain away the earlier confusion -- murmured breathlessly, "You see ... a woman's body ... is ... made to ... welcome ... a man's ... in the act of love."

Pulling away from Wendy's flesh reluctantly, Peter repeated, "Welcome?" Having quite forgotten their earlier conversation at the first sight of Wendy's naked skin, Peter was vaguely befuddled. What did she mean? And why did he care, when Wendy was warm and willing against him?

Looking up into Peter's eyes, their blue-green color now darkened by passion, Wendy whispered, "A woman takes a man inside her body."

Still distracted by the feel of Wendy's smooth skin subtly rubbing against his with her every slightest movement and barely registering what either of them was saying, Peter leaned down toward her, breathing huskily into her left ear, "Inside? Where?"

Pulling back slightly, Wendy gently took Peter's hand in hers as he watched her quizzically. Holding his gaze the entire time, she guided his hand slowly downward until his palm rested against her triangle of curls, his fingers curving below to rest against some unexpected wet heat between her thighs. At that first gentle contact, Wendy jerked lightly, breathing a small gasp as if the touch of his hand upon her flesh had triggered some unexpected sensation.

Confused at what he felt against his fingers, and also by Wendy's surprised reaction, Peter held still a long moment. He wondered if this was the source of the moistness he had felt on Wendy's nightdress when he had first brought her here, and he decided that it almost certainly was. Confident that he at last understood some small part of what was happening, he relaxed slightly.

Watching Wendy's face for clues, Peter flexed his fingers, his eyes widening when she whimpered and her eyes fluttered closed. He repeated his slight caress, and Wendy's knees seemed to suddenly buckle beneath her, her eyes wide with confused need. Never having felt anything remotely like the intense sensations now thrumming through her body, Wendy wondered, _Is this what Peter was talking about?_

Peter carefully lowered Wendy to lay again in the soft nest he had made for them, and took his place beside her, leaning close to watch every expression on her face, to hear any noises she might make. His heart was racing with disbelief and excitement that this was so similar to his fantasies and dreams. He had never dreamt of this mysteriously slick place between Wendy's legs, but he had quickly realized that it gave her pleasure when he touched it. He wanted to look, to see what it was he was touching, but felt vaguely as if this would be somehow inappropriate. Worried that he might upset Wendy so that she pulled away from him, Peter instead resolved to ask Wendy later. For now, he would content himself with the sense of touch, which she seemed to welcome.

Uncertain exactly what he should do, Peter explored with tentative fingers, listening closely to the rising and falling of Wendy's soft gasps and whimpers, raptly watching the subtle writhings of her body. He attempted to repeat any of his actions that seemed to give Wendy more pleasure, but in truth he had little idea which of his blindly enthusiastic movements were successful and which were not.

Still, the increasing tension of her body and the heavy sound of her breathing seemed to indicate that he was doing something right. He wanted to watch her eyes, but they were closed, just as Peter's usually were when he pleasured himself. It was strange to Peter, seeing the signs he had learned to recognize in his own pleasure-wracked body, but seeing them in Wendy instead. He found it extremely exciting.

When one of his naively wriggling fingers unexpectedly slipped inside somewhere Peter had not even known existed, Wendy went rigid and her head fell back in a long moan, her eyes squeezed tightly shut and her face set in a grimace that Peter feared might indicate pain.

Peter froze. Had he hurt her when his finger went somewhere it shouldn't? He didn't know! He didn't mean to! The heat and wetness **did** feel rather like a wound, so it seemed possible. She hadn't told him what was right and what was wrong, so he had only been able to guess. It wasn't his fault!

But Peter realized that Wendy was now lying limp, her breath coming in rapid pants, her eyes still closed, and an expression on her face that might be described as ... bliss. When he started to move his hand again, Wendy whimpered briefly and closed her legs, nearly trapping him. Extricating his hand, he watched her face closely, remembering that Wendy had thought him in pain when in truth he had been experiencing great pleasure, and he gradually became convinced that something good had happened. It might not have been the same as his lightning strike, but it had been something good.

A smug grin creapt over Peter's face.

He stroked her hair away from her face, and eventually her eyes fluttered open to look at him. She looked sleepy and content, a slight smile curving her lips.

"Is that how you felt?" she asked in a hushed voice filled with wonder.

"I'm not sure," Peter admitted. "How did it feel?"

Wendy shook her head slightly. "I can't describe it. It ... it felt as if a ... a knot ... tied tighter and tighter inside of me ... only to suddenly fly apart."

Peter nodded, smiling, excited to finally be able to share this mysterious experience with someone else, particularly to share it with Wendy. "Yes! It feels ... as if you are struck by lightning ... and your whole body shatters!"

Wendy sighed and stretched with a contented grin. "Mm," she agreed languidly. "That is what it felt like."

Peter stroked her face gently again and then lowered his lips to hers, kissing her with a tender vigor that communicated the wordless strength of his emotions. He loved Wendy. He had shared his greatest secret with her. She had shared her body with him. He had no ability to communicate the intensity of his feelings, except through his kiss.

When Wendy gently pulled away, Peter chased her lips with his until she placed her hand upon his shoulder to hold him away from her. Peter, lying upon his side, straightened so that he could see her face more clearly, rather than the double-vision he got from being so close.

"Peter?" Wendy began hesitantly, nervousness obvious in her tone. Peter wondered why she might be nervous, after all they had shared. "Show me?"

Peter was, once again, befuddled. It was, as always, an unpleasant sensation. But Peter's voice was carefully calm when he asked, "Show you what?"

Wendy's hand upon his shoulder gently slid down over his rib cage and toward his waist, resting with a slight tremor upon the side of his body. She did not answer his question, but Peter felt excitement stir within him in response to her tentative touch.

"Show you what, Wendy?" Peter asked quietly, hopefully.

"Show me ... how?" Wendy licked her lips and slid her hand down, down toward the body part that looked nothing whatsoever like Michael's. She stopped just short of touching it.

"How?" gasped Peter, tantalized by Wendy's hand upon him, tantalized by her hand's nearness to where he most wanted to be touched.

Wendy's hand trailed hesitantly down so that it rested with the lightest possible touch upon the hardness between Peter's legs. His entire body seemed to tremble in reaction.

"How to ... touch me?" Peter guessed, uncertain if Wendy was asking what he hoped she was.

Wendy only nodded, her hand petting Peter's extremely sensitive skin with a light, teasing touch. Groaning, Peter turned onto his back, urging Wendy to follow him so that she now lay on her side as he had done previously. With no pretense of hesitation, he eagerly covered her hand with his own, and showed her what to do.

It was very different from the times when he touched himself, so much more intense, for even though he guided Wendy he still could not predict every squeeze and caress. The sense of unpredictability, the sense of being in Wendy's power, lent the experience an edge of excitement unlike anything he had ever felt before, causing his tension to mount more quickly than it had ever done when he was alone.

The grass was cool against his back, and the ocean breezes around them were mild, but Peter's skin where Wendy touched him was burning as if he were truly on fire, as if his skin was made of flame. Lost in sensation, he was not even aware of the archings of his body, the tossings of his head, the small desperate noises he made in his throat, the occasional insistent bucking of his hips. He was, in fact, insensible to everything but Wendy, beautiful and warm at his side, and the excruciatingly wonderful feelings coiling tighter and tighter inside him.

Such sweet tension could not last long, of course, for the greatest pleasures are those which last but a brief time, like the fleeting beauty of the wild rose. And, so, with a theatrical arch of the back, with a loud sob of Wendy's name, with a frantic grasp of her free hand in his, Peter found himself once again touched by the lightning strike, once again taken into the stars and scattered among them in a sudden rush of ecstasy.

For long moments, he was aware only of the pounding of his heart and the rhythmic throbbing of his body, but he slowly became aware of Wendy lying beside him, watching him with uncertain but hopeful eyes. Peter tried to find his way to the surface of the lassitude swamping him, and smiled. Wendy smiled in return.

Looking down, Peter saw the milky white substance lying upon his belly ... and also upon Wendy's hand. Embarrassed, he quickly sat up, though the sudden movement sent a wave of dizziness through his head, and attempted to use grass to clean Wendy's hand. Wendy watched him in mild confusion as he next used his fingers to wipe the substance off his belly and then wiped his fingers against the grass. He was blushing furiously.

Wendy, of course, having been told the basics of how men and women copulate, was not surprised by this product of Peter's organ. She was only surprised that it was also apparently produced outside of the actual act of making love, outside of the woman's body. And, to be honest, she was surprised by its odd consistency, quite different from anything else she had ever encountered. Perhaps a bit like rice pudding. Raising her hand to her mouth to taste the traces that still remained upon her skin, Wendy grimaced. It certainly didn't **taste** like rice pudding. She wiped her hand on the discarded nightdress that lay within easy reach.

Satisfied that he had cleaned himself and Wendy as best he could, Peter lay down again upon the bed of woven grasses, and gently pulled Wendy to him. Resting her head against his shoulder, pulling her so that she lay half on top of his body with her bare legs twined with his, with his arms wrapped around her securely and her arm lying across his chest, Peter Pan fell asleep. And Wendy soon followed him.


	8. In the Bedroom

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I must admit that the Peter I've been writing in this fic is mostly based on the 2003 film, but he is also slightly influenced by the character in the book. The film shows that Peter Pan doesn't know what a kiss or a thimble is, but in the book his ignorance extends much further than that.

Peter did not sleep long, for his instincts would not allow it while they were so exposed to any approaching attack. But he did not wake Wendy immediately, instead lying still with her in his arms, their bare bodies pressed together. He watched the stars above them, so different from the stars in Neverland. He closed his eyes and listened to the sound of the ocean in the distance, the sound of the wind in the grass, the sound of his heart beat, now slow and steady.

He lay there in their grassy nest and tried to memorize every inch of Wendy's body where it pressed against his: the curve of her shoulder, the soft weight of her breast, the firmness of her hipbone, the smooth length of her legs, the silky brush of her hair against his neck and shoulder, the subtle arch of her cheekbone, the dear angle of her chin.

When the dark, starry sky began to lighten with the first distant sign of the coming sun, Peter gently turned Wendy in his arms so that he could kiss her lips. She blinked sleepily, making Peter smile.

"Come on," he whispered. "Let me take you home."

But Wendy's limbs were still heavy with relaxed languor, and so after re-dressing himself Peter attempted to dress her in her nightgown, causing much sleepy giggling on Wendy's part. Once she seemed reasonably well covered, he lifted her into his arms and bestowed one more gentle kiss upon her lips before flying into the air and back toward London.

As they flew, Wendy became somewhat revived by the cool air in her face. She began pressing distracting kisses upon the side of Peter's neck and throat, which at times seemed to disrupt his flying, causing it to grow rather erratic, but he did not tell her to stop, only smiling more broadly.

By the time they arrived at the Darlings' home, the night sky had still only shifted from starry darkness to a brightening blue. The dawn was still some time away.

Peter flew in at the window and into Wendy's bedroom, depositing her carefully upon the soft piles of white bedding. He gazed down at her a long moment, adorably snuggled as she was, with her eyes drowsily closing again, before he whispered, "Good night, Wendy," and flew reluctantly from the room, onward toward Neverland.

* * *

When Wendy moved to change position in the bed some short time later, she sleepily realized that she was hopelessly tangled in her nightdress. Stumbling to her feet beside the bed, she found her gown not only rather twisted about her waist, but also terribly misbuttoned. This last brought an amused smile to her slowly wakening face, for Peter must surely have attempted the buttons himself, with a rather obvious lack of success.

Shaking her gown to let it fall loosely around her, remedying the tangling problem, Wendy then went to work on unbuttoning the rather haphazard top half of her nightdress.

* * *

As he flew, Peter thought on all that he had felt this night, as well as all that Wendy had done and said, and he slowly began to have an idea. A very strange idea.

He remembered now that Wendy had said something about a man's body fitting inside a woman's body. It had made no sense to him at the time, but now, remembering the moment when his finger had accidentally slipped into some unexpected hollow between Wendy's legs, Peter wondered if the two weren't somehow related.

He wondered if perhaps the same place his finger had gone was meant to encase the hardness that grew between his own legs. Could she possibly have a hole between her legs large enough for that? But then how did she walk? Wasn't it terribly inconvenient? Did things get lost in there? How could she just have a big empty place in the middle? The possibility seemed exceedingly strange.

And yet it made sense, in a strange way, that the place between his legs might somehow relate to the place between hers, if men and women truly were made to fit together.

The more he thought on it, the more the idea grew and expanded in his mind. He was not sure if he was correct, but he found himself far too excited by the possibilities to simply go home and wait to see Wendy later.

Peter turned around and flew very rapidly back toward London.

* * *

When Peter flew quite impertinently through the window, Wendy clutched her nightdress closed before her, for she had only just finished unbuttoning the mess he had created earlier.

"Peter!" she hissed in surprise, glancing back toward the door as if expecting her father to come walking in at any moment.

Peter landed only inches from her, putting his hands upon her upper arms and gazing into her upraised face. "Come with me!" he insisted. If he were to ask her such momentous questions, he would prefer to do it somewhere he was more comfortable. The insides of houses made him itch, all enclosed and permanent and locked.

But Wendy shook her head, quite confused at Peter's sudden reappearance and demand. "Peter, I need to sleep."

"Then," began Peter hesitantly, trying to think of some alternative that might still allow him to investigate these puzzling new ideas he was having, "may I stay here with you, just for a little while? I'll go before morning, I promise."

Wendy hesitated, but found that she could not resist the eager plea in Peter's eyes. In truth, she was flattered that Peter had come back so quickly, and excited to be near him again. She smiled. "All right, Peter. Just for a little while."

Peter nearly whooped with victory, but Wendy clapped a hand over his mouth just in time, shaking her head. "We must be very quiet, Peter. My parents are in the next room!"

Peter nodded, her hand still over his mouth. He smiled against her palm, and Wendy released him. Looking down at her, Peter boldly pushed her nightdress off of her shoulders, letting it drop to the floor around her feet. Wendy gasped, but the sound was almost coy, as if she had been wanting this as much as he, but had not been brazen enough to say so.

As Wendy sat upon the edge of her bed, Peter let his own leaves and vines fall to the floor, and then followed her onto that soft mound of white. When they lay down beside each other, Peter's skin was brown against the paleness of the bedclothes, but Wendy had not long to ponder the contrast before he was flying into the air to hover above her, their bodies aligned as they had been that first night when he woke her.

"Peter...?" she began, but Peter pressed his mouth to hers, and all desire to talk was lost. Wendy returned his kiss greedily, her body still humming with the earlier pleasure he had given her. She raised her arms to stroke Peter's back, her hands caressing the smoothness of his skin over firmly defined muscles. Tightening her arms around him, she pulled him down toward herself.

As Wendy drew him down, Peter settled between her legs, where he had been before. But this was the first time he had been there when they were both naked, and the experience was quite different. The dark curling hair pressed against him until he shifted his position.

And then, suddenly, the wet heat he had explored with his fingers was suddenly touching the most sensitive part of his body, the hardness between his legs, and Peter sucked in a shocked breath of air. At the meeting of their flesh, Wendy, too, gasped and pulled her face away to look up at him above her.

Peter smoothed his hands over her pale breasts, cupping them and gently squeezing, toying with the hardened nipples, wanting to experience all parts of her body at the same time, wanting everything at once, for the longing within him was just that strong.

Wendy could not help but arch against him in response to his treatment of her breasts, but her movement caused them to rub against each other between their legs. Both of them groaned softly.

Leaning down to claim Wendy's lips in another heated kiss, Peter began artlessly thrusting his hips so that his hardness slipped and slid against Wendy's heat. Even in his passion-hazed mind, Peter felt sure that there must be some entry there, though he did not understand how or where.

Beneath him, Wendy too was drunk on kisses, on the feel of Peter's body above her own, on the memories of the pleasure they had shared on the moonlit hillside. Peter's ill-aimed thrusts sent him sliding against her over and over again, building her passion higher and higher.

But as Wendy reached down one trembling, eager hand to guide him, to show him the way, some small noise, some creaking, perhaps of her sleeping parents turning over in their bed, made her eyes open wide, made her suddenly remember where she was, and **who** she was. Made her suddenly remember the responsibilities of a proper young lady, and of a someday bride.

The awareness of her trusting parents so near, of her brothers sleeping so innocently down the hall, of the fashionably appropriate gowns hanging in the armoire against the wall ... it all brought duty and propriety crowding thickly about her like a curtain ... or like a shroud. If this moment had arrived on the grassy hillside, she might have forgotten, might have acted on instinct and desire alone. But here, in her family's home, everything was different.

She would not shame her family. She could not be so selfish.

The hand she had been extending to guide Peter into her body instead rose to press against his chest, holding him away from her. "No, Peter," she whispered, fighting tears. "I cannot."

Peter gazed down at her in utter confusion, his lips red and glistening with her kisses. "You cannot what?"

"I cannot do this," Wendy explained, helping Peter not at all. And then she met his eyes with sorrow and apology. "This one thing ... I must save for ... my husband."

Peter jerked back as if he had been burned. Husband? It was Wendy who spoke the word, but Peter heard it instead in Hook's deep mocking voice, telling Peter that he would be replaced, that Wendy would find a husband and forget all about him.

Hook had been right about Wendy latching the window. It appeared he had been right about this, as well. Wendy was pushing him away, saving something, something most likely very valuable, something she would not give to Peter ... she was saving it for this other man, this man who was her husband.

She was turning Peter away ... for a husband. She would forget all about him. All of his feelings for her meant nothing.

Peter had little experience with rejection, and his dislike for disappointment was well-known. His heart thudded dully in his chest, his eyes fighting tears. He averted his face quickly, not wanting Wendy to see how deeply she had wounded him.

As soon as he had recovered from his initial shock, Peter flew from the bed, rapidly re-clothing himself, purposely not looking at Wendy where she huddled miserably among the white bedclothes. As he turned toward the open window, Wendy said softly, with tears now spilling from her eyes, "I'm sorry, Peter."

But Peter did not reply, flying out the window and into the rising dawn, his heart burning with a pain as real as if Wendy had plunged a sword through his chest.


	9. If He Is the One

In the days and weeks following that terrible night, Wendy dutifully attended all of the requisite balls and parties and dinners, just as she had always done since she came of age. She made small talk with all of the indistinguishably eligible young gentlemen to whom she was introduced, but if truth be told she barely even saw them. The only face her eyes could see was one topped with tousled light brown hair above blue-green eyes and a smug grin.

Mrs. Darling noticed that the spark had left her daughter's eyes, but knew not what to do about it. Some secret grief seemed to weigh heavy on Wendy's young heart.

* * *

In Neverland, a dreadful imbalance had developed, for it was simply not normal for Peter Pan to spend so much time indoors, and so little time flying and laughing.

The Lost Boys found that he was no longer so very irritable with them. Rather, he seemed somehow deflated, defeated. He sat staring at nothing, sometimes for entire days. He no longer minded the noise they made, he no longer threatened to run anyone through with his sword, and so the Lost Boys rollicked even more energetically in their attempts to bring the old Peter leaping to his feet in a merry bid to gut them.

But Peter did not leap to his feet in response to their antics. He did not grin or laugh or fly or crow or show off.

All Peter Pan did was sulk.

And it was terribly boring.

So the Lost Boys eventually gave up on trying to bait him, and simply went about their business without him, climbing trees, rolling down slopes, pushing and shoving each other, shooting arrows at birds and fish, and mocking the pirates from a relatively safe distance.

Deep in the ocean surrounding Neverland, the mermaids spoke to each other.

Deep in their hidden caves and trees, the fairies spoke to each other.

Something was wrong with Pan.

* * *

Passing her daughter's room one night after lighting the nightlights in the nursery, Mrs. Darling saw that Wendy's door was open, and so she went inside.

Wendy was in her bed, the white counterpane pulled up to her chin, her shining brown hair cascading around her as beautiful as ever. But Wendy's eyes were sad, which made them less beautiful, despite their clear blue color.

Sitting upon the edge of the bed, Mrs. Darling gently stroked her daughter's hair away from her face and smiled kindly. Wendy had become such a mature young lady. It sometimes made Mrs. Darling regret that she should soon lose her to a family of her own. Children grow up so quickly.

"Mother?" began Wendy, her voice quiet. "How did you know that Father was the man you should marry?"

Mrs. Darling thought a moment. She knew that Wendy was of an age soon to be engaged, soon married, but she had seen no evidence that her daughter yet favored any of the gentlemen in London society. She wondered if there was some secret suitor who had made her daughter so very unhappy, or if it was separation from some beloved young man that had slowed Wendy's step and stolen her smiles.

Whatever the source of Wendy's woe, Mrs. Darling would not mislead her daughter, and so she answered Wendy's question honestly. "My heart knew, dear. My heart knew he was the man with whom I would spend the rest of my life. There could be no other."

The younger woman was quiet, many thoughts flitting across her face and in her eyes, but none of them voiced in words.

"Mother, I think ... I have found the one my heart loves. But I sent him away." Wendy's eyes had filled with tears as she spoke, and one slid into her hair to hide.

"Oh, Wendy," soothed Mrs. Darling with a compassionate smile, "if he is truly the one, your heart will speak to him, no matter how far. And he will return to you ... if he is truly the one."

Wendy had always trusted her mother's wisdom and experience, but in this case she could not help but doubt.

Peter Pan would not come back. And there was nothing she could do about it.

* * *

The one creature in Neverland who decided to do something about Peter's depressed moping was Tinker Bell, for she had only a very small amount of space in her body for patience, and it had quickly been depleted.

She flew to him in his hiding place beneath the overhanging rock, where he no longer indulged in bodily pleasures, but instead only stared out at the ocean and sulked. He paid no attention to her, and so she yanked his hair. When she still received no response, she pinched his earlobe as hard as she could, which finally caused him to shout and turn toward her.

"What was that for?" Peter grumbled, rubbing his ear.

Tinker Bell jingled a diatribe about her displeasure with how boring and depressing he had become lately. They'd once been great friends, but now he was only a lump.

"I am not a 'lump'," Peter insisted, offended. Tinker Bell was glad to have succeeded in baiting him.

"Ever since you grew large," she jingled and jangled, "you've been boring."

"I am **not** boring!" cried Peter, his arms crossing in annoyance. "And, anyway, it isn't because I grew. It's because of Wendy."

Tinker Bell made various rude gestures indicating her opinion of this horrible great ugly girl "Wendy."

"It isn't really her fault," Peter sighed, growing melancholy once more. "She wants a 'husband'."

"What's a 'husband'?" asked Tinker Bell in her tinkling voice.

Peter hesitated a long moment, wondering how he could avoid admitting that he was not precisely sure.

* * *

As time went on, and months passed, Wendy grew even more certain that she had made a terrible mistake in pushing Peter away.

Sometimes when she went to the window in the morning, there were marks in the snow on the windowsill which looked perhaps like imprints made by hands, as if someone had hovered secretly at the window and peered in at her while she slept.

The first time it happened, Wendy became very excited, hoping that Peter had indeed returned to her but perhaps been too shy to let himself be seen. And so she waited at the open window all the following night, waiting to apologize to Peter and tell him how wrong she had been, but he never arrived, or at least she never saw him. The only result of her hopeful watch at the window was a slight cough resulting from the cold air.

As time went on, Wendy accepted that Peter was not returning. And she had no way of seeking him out.

As time went on, Wendy grew even more certain that the departed Peter Pan was the one her heart loved, the only one with whom she would ever wish to spend the rest of her life.

Her kiss was his, and always would be. And so was her poor heart.

* * *

All over London, fashionable ladies and gentlemen, wizened apple sellers and paper boys, people of all stations and all walks of life talked amongst themselves as they attended social events, walked along the street, went about their work, and even retired within their homes.

None of them noticed the strange young man who sometimes hovered in the shadows, listening attentively.

None of them noticed that sometimes the lamps were brighter than normal or shone in strange places, for they would have considered such things impossible. They would certainly have never admitted seeing a rapidly hidden shimmering light that listened in upon their conversations upon occasion.

None of them noticed how often they were eavesdropped upon, for few were visited more than once.

Through the shadowy evenings of London, a young man clad in leaves and a brightly-lit fairy searched for answers to their questions. Or, to be precise, their single question.

_What is a "husband"?_

* * *

Mrs. Darling sat by her daughter's bedside again, some time after her daughter's first mysterious questions about choosing whom to marry.

"Wendy, you still seem so sad, dear. Can you tell me what troubles you?" A mother's instinct told her that the weight her daughter bore might be lessened if it were shared.

But Wendy raised her hands to hide her face and whimpered, "Oh, Mother, you will be angry. I know you will."

Laying her hands gently upon Wendy's wrists, encouraging her to raise her eyes, but not compelling her to do so, Mrs. Darling replied kindly, "I should never be angry with you, Wendy. You are my child, and I love you."

Looking up into her mother's loving face, Wendy contemplated sharing her grief, but hesitated a long moment. Mrs. Darling simply waited.

"Mother, I know whom my heart loves." Wendy hesitated again.

Mrs. Darling waited, and then prompted gently, "Do you want to tell me who it is, dear?"

Closing her eyes tightly, not wanting to see her mother's face when she knew, Wendy whispered, "It is Peter Pan." A long silence eventually persuaded Wendy to open one eye, only to see her mother smiling as benignly as before.

"Did you think I would not know, my precious one? A mother knows her children's hearts as well as her own."

"But, Mother," Wendy objected, "why are you not upset? If I were to leave with him, I would be far away, where you would not be able to visit. And ... it would not be what you and Father expect of me."

Shaking her lovely head with a smile, Mrs. Darling said, "Has Ellie Newton not married an American, and moved far from this country, with the blessing of her family? Parents must let their children go when they are ready to fly, and let them find their own nests."

Leaning forward to lay a soft kiss upon Wendy's cheek, Mrs. Darling continued, "And a mother who expected anything from her child but love and happiness would be quite remiss in her duties."

Wide-eyed with surprise at this attitude, Wendy whispered, "But what about Father?"

Mrs. Darling chuckled lightly. "Your father understands the world in facts and figures, but even he cannot deny true magic when it touches him. You have seen how he cares for the boys, though their mode of arrival was passing strange."

With a fond smile, Mrs. Darling added, "Your father and I would understand, if it made you happy."

Wendy could do nothing but marvel at this unexpected blessing, but at length she remembered that it was too late. Peter had gone, and would not return.

With a mother's wise eye, Mrs. Darling saw the thoughts reflected in her daughter's face. "Do not lose hope, dear. Love is a powerful thing."

* * *

It was, however, still a tremendous shock when Wendy woke one night to see Peter's face floating above her in her bed. She gasped, and he jerked backward instinctively, but not so far as to leave her sight.

"Peter?" she whispered with awe, wondering if she were still dreaming.

Peter flew to the side of her bed and landed lightly upon the floor. He stood stiffly, formally, as if he were exceedingly uncomfortable but determined to perform some task nonetheless. Wendy sat up and turned to sit on the edge of her bed, her nightdress twisting beneath her so that her legs were exposed almost to the knee.

"I would like to show you something," Peter explained tensely. "Will you come with me?" He looked terribly nervous, as if in an agony of suspense over her answer.

Wendy leapt from her bed, knowing that this was the chance she had been so certain would never come again. She would not let it pass her by. Not this time. She ran to the dressing table, Peter's anxious eyes following her, still waiting for his answer.

Wendy pulled out a pale yellow sheet of writing paper and wrote:

 _Dearest Mother,_  
You were right. He came back, and I am following my heart. Please explain to father, and kiss the boys from me.  
With love and happiness,  
Wendy

She rested the note upon her pillow and then stood tall, ready to face all that might lay before her. She extended her hand toward Peter, who looked quite wretched with nervous anticipation. When he stepped forward hesitantly, and put his larger hand in hers, Wendy smiled perhaps the happiest smile of her life.

"Yes, Peter. I will come with you."


	10. The Plan

As they flew through the air, Wendy was not surprised that they seemed headed toward Neverland, but she **was** surprised that Peter did not speak to her during the entire voyage. Instead, he looked always ahead, his jaw set in determined lines.

When they arrived in Neverland, Peter led her to a clearing she had never seen before, beside a huge, towering oak tree. "Peter...?" she began, but Peter raised a hand to stop her. He stood stiffly and nervously, just as he had done in her bedroom.

"Wendy, don't say anything. I want to show you something. Or ... well ... more than one thing. So, just ... wait ... wait until you see everything. Don't say anything now."

Puzzled, Wendy nodded, curious to see what it was that Peter was referring to.

Bowing formally, Peter said with great solemnity, as if he had prepared the statement in advance, "Wendy, I want to be your husband."

Her eyebrows rising, Wendy opened her mouth to speak, to assure Peter that she had come with him to stay, but Peter again raised his hand to ask her to stay silent. Unsure exactly what was happening, Wendy closed her mouth and watched Peter in confusion. He was behaving so very strangely!

Taking her hand with a rather gallant gesture, Peter flew up into the gigantic oak tree, landing upon a thick branch with Wendy beside him. Up close, Wendy could see that some structure was built within the branches of the tree, and indeed Peter opened a door in front of her, and showed her inside.

It was a house very like the one the Lost Boys had built for her so long ago, though this was much larger, and contained rustic furniture. The walls and floors -- and indeed the bed and chairs and tables and other furnishings -- were made of branches, vines, moss, bark, leaves, and other such natural materials. Tinker Bell was inside waiting for them, and flew about the room with a jingling chatter, stopping beside each new interesting part of the house to gesture encouragingly for Wendy to look.

From the ground, the house had been nearly invisible, its colorings and textures blending easily with the tree's leaves and branches, but the dwelling was quite cunning from the inside, very cozy and comfortable, with plenty of sunlight to illuminate its many charms.

"Oh, Peter, it's lovely!" cried Wendy, clasping her hands before her in pleasure.

"A husband must provide a house," stated Peter, still in the stilted tone that seemed to indicate he was reciting well-practiced lines. Rubbing one hand nervously through his always messy hair, Peter then boasted shyly, "I made this house for you, so that I can be your husband."

In truth, the Lost Boys had done most of the actual construction while Peter "supervised," but Peter blithely claimed the credit for a job well done. He remembered his initial intent to build a house for Wendy, and conveniently forgot that others had been instrumental in the execution of his plan. He was quite proud of the clever house "he" had built.

"But, Peter..." Wendy began, wanting to tell him that he did not need to go to such lengths for her, but again Peter raised his hand, looking so anxious and determined that Wendy nodded reluctantly and waited for him to continue.

Peter's sudden high, sharp whistle made Wendy jump with fright, and then press one hand to her racing heart, laughing lightly at her own silliness. Tinker Bell flew to him and perched upon his shoulder to watch the proceedings. Wendy was rather glad the fairy was now holding still and had ceased her energetic attempts to show the house to best advantage, for her sparkling flourishes had been exceedingly distracting.

In response to the whistle, five young boys appeared as if out of nowhere, most likely descending from the branches of the tree. They shuffled to stand before her on the mossy floor, hats in their hands and innocently impish smiles upon their not-quite-clean faces. Peter had convinced them to wash for the occasion, but they had done a rather haphazard job of it, and if Wendy had checked behind their ears she would have been quite horrified.

"You must be the new Lost Boys," Wendy guessed, smiling brightly at them.

They nodded, glancing at Peter for some indication of what they should do. This was Peter's plan, after all. When he only shrugged at them, the boys eagerly spoke in rather chaotic unison.

"I'm Twigs."

"I'm Blotter."

"My name is Zed. Glad to meet you!"

"They call me Rankle, on account of Peter says I talk too much and he gets very irritated."

The youngest boy, probably no more than 5 years old, had not spoken. Wendy knelt down before him and asked gently, "And what is your name?"

But the small tow-headed boy only looked up at the others. The skinny boy who had said his name was Twigs explained, "He don't talk, miss."

Frowning, Wendy asked, "Does he have a name?"

The boys all glanced at each other, and then at Peter, who shrugged again. Tinker Bell scoffed. It appeared that no one knew, or no one remembered, or no one had given the boy a name. Aghast at this neglect, Wendy asked the small boy, "Do you want a name?" and he nodded eagerly. "How about Sprout?" she suggested with a motherly smile. "Because I expect you shall grow very tall one day."

The Lost Boys burst out speaking in unison again, their words tumbling over each other as the boys themselves did when they played.

"Wonderful name! Sprout!"

"I say, that's top rate!"

"Could I have a new name, too? 'Sprout' is better than mine."

"Why didn't I get a name from the Wendy lady? So unfair!"

And then the boys quickly resorted to the usual pushing and shoving, their voices raised in childish shouts. There was even, if the honest truth be told, some kicking and biting, which is **never** sporting. It was not a true fight, of course, but rather only a play fight which all involved enjoyed tremendously. Young Sprout even ran mischievously between the struggling others, poking and tripping the older boys wherever he could.

Peter cleared his throat and frowned meaningfully, and the Lost Boys immediately fell silent, pulling apart and brushing themselves off, looking suitably chastened. Wendy walked to Peter, one eyebrow raised in curiosity.

Again with that odd formality, Peter explained with a gesture toward the boys, "A husband should provide children." Wendy blushed, knowing how husbands **usually** provided children, but Peter was mildly puzzled by her reaction. He did not ask, however, for he was working very hard to avoid looking ignorant. He was focusing exclusively on boldly declaring those things that he **did** know. And one of the things he knew was that husbands provided children. And he could do this for Wendy. "There will always be more Lost Boys, as long as nurses are so very careless with their prams. And so you shall never lack for children, Wendy."

Before Wendy could even begin to react, Peter crooked his finger in a gesture that called forth the red-headed Lost Boy who had called himself Blotter. Blotter proudly pulled a sack from behind him and upended it, spilling gold doubloons and other shining pirate treasure out upon the mossy floor.

Wendy gasped, glancing at Peter for explanation. "A husband must provide money," he explained, watching Wendy's face to see how she might be reacting to all of this. After a moment, he added awkwardly, "I don't know why you want money, but I have plenty of treasure, so you can have as much as you want." Tinker Bell flew down to shine her light upon the gold, making it look that much brighter. She and Peter had developed this plan together, after all, and so Tink was determined to receive some of the credit.

Despite her best efforts, Wendy was beginning to be very amused with these odd proceedings. She was touched, of course, that Peter wanted to be her husband, and that he had gone to such trouble for her, but she was also tickled by his naive attitude toward the concept of marriage.

Seeing that Wendy seemed to be laughing at him, if only with her eyes, Peter grew more desperate. "A husband provides protection!" he insisted quickly. "Haven't I always protected you? Didn't I rescue you when Hook made you walk the plank? Didn't my kiss save you when you were nearly shot with an arrow? Didn't I watch in at your window during the nights, to make sure that you were safe?"

Wendy, of course, had not realized how often Peter had watched over her, but she now did, and was moved by this further evidence of his caring for her. It would seem that the imprints in the snow on her windowsill had been handprints after all, just as she had hoped.

Turning to Peter, Wendy opened her mouth to speak, but Peter again raised his hand, insisting worriedly, "Wait! No! Don't say anything yet!"

But Wendy had had quite enough of this treatment and would not be deterred. She stamped her bare foot on the surprisingly sturdy floor -- the Lost Boys had done excellent work, despite their frequent distractions to chase squirrels, knock each other out of the tree, and engage in mock sword fights with slender branches as swords -- and said firmly, "I will not be shushed, Peter Pan. A husband does not shush his wife! A husband respects his wife and listens to her when she has something to say!"

Peter, suddenly crestfallen, looked down at the ground, his shoulders sagging in defeat. He had failed the test. He'd only been trying to show Wendy all of the reasons why she should let him be her husband, but he had not realized that he was doing it all wrong. Neither he nor Tinker Bell had heard of this rule about not shushing. Now everything was ruined. Wendy would never let him be her husband now. Tinker Bell flew to him, but he batted her away despondently.

"Peter," Wendy said gently, bending her head in an unsuccessful attempt to catch his gaze. Peter would not look at her, the shame and disappointment on his face heartbreaking for Wendy to see. "Peter, this is all splendid, and I am very grateful. But ... there is only one thing I truly need from a husband."

Peter mumbled gloomily, without looking up, "Is it proper money? I knew pirate treasure wouldn't count as proper money. I **knew** it."

"No, Peter," Wendy smiled, "it is not proper money. It is love."

"Love?" Peter's voice was soft and uncertain. He and Tink had heard about this one, and so it was not precisely a surprise to him. It had been next on his list of things to present to Wendy. If he had known it was the most important, he would certainly have offered it first, instead of last. But it couldn't be this simple, could it? What about the shushing disaster?

"Love is the only thing I truly need from a husband, Peter." Not wanting an audience for this sensitive conversation, Wendy gently encouraged the Lost Boys to leave her and Peter alone. The boys dutifully filed out, Tinker Bell reluctantly flying out with them, all of them casting curious glances back at their leader, who had eyes only for Wendy.

"What about the shushing?" asked Peter hesitantly, watching Wendy's face for cues as to her thoughts and feelings. Her hair was shining in the yellow sunlight that streamed through the windows, and her eyes were bright and blue. She looked ... she looked so very **beautiful**. And she was smiling. He relaxed slightly, but still waited for her response to his question.

Wendy stepped nearer to him and looked up into his face, her expression serious. "Why do you want to be my husband, Peter?"

Peter swallowed, suddenly nervous again. He had not realized there would be a quiz. He searched his mind for the correct answer. Certainly he and Tink must have learned something of this in all their travels to investigate the topic. Why do you want to be a husband? Why a husband? Oh ... what was the correct answer? He could not think! It was terrible! A catastrophe!

"Peter," Wendy put one hand upon his cheek so that she could turn his head toward hers, forcing him to meet her eyes. "Peter, just tell me. What are your ... feelings?"

"Feelings?" repeated Peter, unknowingly echoing a conversation they had had years before, a conversation which had not ended well for either of them. He felt panic rising within him. He had not expected all of these questions. He had wanted to show her that he could be a good husband, and then have her stay with him. It was all suddenly so complicated. Why couldn't things be simple?

Stroking her hand soothingly through Peter's tousled hair, Wendy watched his eyes as she asked quietly, "Do you love me, Peter?"

A yes or no question! Peter knew the answer to this one, and so he nodded jerkily, still expecting some hidden trap, still certain it could not be so simple, not after so many difficult questions had been lobbed at him.

But Wendy's smile had softened and gladdened at his response, and she asked him even more quietly, "Truly, Peter? You truly love me?"

She was leaning toward him, and so Peter hesitantly rested his hands upon her waist to steady her, and to steady himself. Could it be so easy?

"Yes, Wendy. Truly," he whispered. He did not say the word, but perhaps someday he would have the courage to do so. For now, he hoped that the feeling would suffice.

Wendy pulled his head down toward hers, smiling and whispering, "I love you, too, Peter," and then pressed her lips to his, her mouth tasting like starshine upon his tongue. Peter kissed her gladly, with great relief, with anticipation, with love. His heart ached within him, feeling almost as if it were speaking to hers without words, speaking to her heart and telling her of the depth of his feelings, feelings he could not express aloud. And indeed, Wendy knew, though she knew not how. She knew that Peter loved her. And that was the one thing that mattered.

And so, with that kiss, Wendy chose Peter for her husband, proper money or no.


	11. Virginity

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I do not in any way condone unprotected sex, regardless of a person's age. Be safe. Always use a condom. **But** if you happen to find yourself somehow transported backward in time into the Edwardian age, and then taken to a magical island where sexually-transmitted diseases do not exist, with a gorgeous boy whose child you would be happy and capable to raise if such an eventuality arose ... well, in that case, I say go for it!

After Wendy had been given a thorough tour of their new tree house, had become better acquainted with the new Lost Boys (who were sorely in need of looking after), had recounted the thrilling story of Cinderella and the pirates (much to the enjoyment of Peter, the Lost Boys, and even Tinker Bell), and had dined extravagantly on exotic fruits with the entire rowdy company, Peter at last decided that he wanted her all to himself, and so flew away with Wendy to a grassy hillside overlooking the Mermaids' Lagoon.

They sat side-by-side on the thick carpet of grass and moss, holding hands and watching the sun set in flaming reds and oranges and yellows. Far below them, the Jolly Roger rocked gently upon the waves. In the distance to the other side, the volcano streamed with molten lava.

The breeze stirred Wendy's hair with its warm breath, and beneath the scent of the ocean's salty tang, the breeze smelled of fairy dust and mermaid song, moccasins and gunpowder, waterfalls and dreams.

The air smelled of Neverland. It was the most wonderful scent that ever was. It was a scent that Wendy had never forgotten, and breathed deep into her lungs, her lips curved in a smile of homecoming.

Peter watched her, for she looked far more beautiful to him than the sunset over the ocean. The light from the sky turned her hair to shining fire, and he could not help but reach out a hand to touch it, making Wendy turn to smile at him.

"So ... I am your husband now?" Peter thought it might be best to verify this, since Wendy had not made any definitive statement on the subject, though her kiss had seemed answer enough.

"Yes, Peter. I am proud to have you for my husband." Wendy squeezed Peter's hand, and relief flooded him. He'd been fairly certain already, but hearing her say so made all of his efforts and plans seem worth it. Wendy would stay with him now, and not bar the window and forget all about him as Hook had predicted. Instead of a husband taking his place, Peter himself was Wendy's husband!

Peter was jolted from his thoughts when he realized that Wendy had lain backward into the grass and was smiling up at him with a coy invitation shining in her blue eyes.

Grinning, Peter followed her down, leaning over her to press an eager kiss to her soft lips. When Wendy twined her arms around his neck and pulled him closer to her, he boldly insinuated one of his legs between hers, so that he could lean over her more fully and press his body to hers. He could not get close enough. He wanted them to be naked again, with him pressed as close to her as possible, so that it felt almost as if their skins might fuse together from the heat they generated. That was how he had felt the last time they had been together, and the memory set his blood racing through his body.

Wendy's lips against his were hot, her tongue was smooth and wet, and her hands seemed desperate as they gripped him with an urgency that Peter thought might mean that she too could not get close enough. When Peter brought his hands tentatively to her breasts, she sighed into his mouth, arching her back brazenly, pushing her soft flesh into his palms. Peter eagerly turned his attention to the buttons separating her body from his, but he grunted in annoyance at the tiny slick buttons.

Laughing lightly, Wendy pushed Peter away to struggle with her nightdress, wiggling until she had lifted it over her head and tossed it carelessly aside.

The sun was setting, but the remaining rays of daylight shone gold across her pale skin. Though the moonlight had illumined her previously, Peter could now see details which had before remained somewhat elusive. The color of her nipples was indeed a coral pink, the color of the ornate reefs Peter sometimes explored beneath Neverland's ocean waves. The angle where her arm met her body was delicate, so vulnerable, so soft. He reached out to caress that lovely curve, but at the touch of his finger Wendy giggled and pressed her arm firmly against her side. "That tickles!" she laughed, but her eyes were still warm and encouraging.

Quickly discarding his own leaves and vines, Peter moved to cover her again, her legs spreading to allow him to settle between them, his hardness pressing against her inner thigh as he once again took her mouth in a passionate kiss. Instinctively, their bodies moved against each other as their lips and tongues danced. Peter's hands moved over Wendy's skin, exploring this still-little-known territory with an eagerness borne of relief and joy. This was his Wendy. **His**. She had chosen him for her husband! He cupped her breasts in his hands and lowered his head to cover them with adoring kisses.

As Peter's attention focused upon her bosom, his body still hot and hard between her legs, Wendy spoke in little more than a hushed whisper. "Peter, now that you are my husband ... now ... it is right that ... I should give you my ... virginity."

Peter's head came up, his mouth wet and open, his eyes confused. "What's that?" He had done no research, after all, on what wives gave their husbands. He knew only what husbands were expected to give their wives. He was greatly interested in this "virginity" that Wendy wished to give him, though he did wonder if it was so important that it should interrupt them at such an inconvenient time.

Wendy's face was shy and pink in the gathering twilight. "Do you remember what I said ... before ... about men and women fitting together?"

"Yes." Peter's body began to heat even further at the remembrance of his suppositions on that mysterious subject. Without realizing that he did so, he pressed himself even more firmly against the inside of Wendy's thigh.

"Well ... virginity is ... when a woman has never ... fit ... with a man ... before." Having this conversation while he was naked on top of her was exceedingly awkward, and so Wendy stared into Peter's eyes as if she could will understanding into his mind by force of wishing.

But Peter's brow still furrowed. "I have never fit with anyone before. Does that mean that I have a virginity?"

Wendy was momentarily nonplused. She had never thought of it that way before. "I suppose so, Peter."

"Then why do you need to give me yours, if I already have one?" Peter was growing impatient with this conversation. Wendy had mentioned their bodies fitting together, and Peter was eager to learn how that might work. Surely they could discuss "virginity" later? But if Wendy was determined to give him a gift, he knew that he would not refuse, even if her timing was most desperately unfortunate. He resolved to put his own rather pressing desires aside for the moment, and try to understand what Wendy was telling him.

Wendy had to think about Peter's unexpected question a moment, before replying, "I give you my virginity, Peter, and you give me yours."

Peter found this a rather strange and confusing idea, but then remembered when Wendy had first given him her kiss, and he had given her an acorn in return. Thinking of it in those terms was reassuring. Yes, virginities must be like kisses, he decided. He wondered which of them was supposed to give their virginity first, and he sincerely hoped that it was Wendy, because then he could copy her.

But Wendy only lay beneath him, however, her hands lightly stroking his shoulders in a very distracting way, her knees rising on either side of his hips in a manner that made it nearly impossible to concentrate on their conversation. She watched him with nervously expectant eyes, as if waiting for him to do something. "Which of us goes first?" he asked at length, when Wendy had volunteered no further information but only continued to touch his skin and drive him nearly mad with efforts to restrain himself. Not waiting for her answer, he suggested quickly, "Perhaps you should go first."

"Go first?" asked Wendy, puzzled at what Peter could possibly mean.

"Yes," Peter insisted, displaying some small trace of his great internal frustration, despite his best efforts to be gallant. "You give me your virginity first, and then I shall give you mine."

Wisely realizing that the time for talking had passed, Wendy simply reached her hand down and gently showed Peter the way, abruptly chasing all rational thought from his mind. When he still hesitated, Wendy lifted her hips upward, taking him a small way inside her welcoming body.

Peter felt so many things at once, he was not sure how to react. Everything was still all so new, so overwhelming and dizzyingly intense. He could not even separate the many sensations and feelings from one another. A vague lingering sense of confusion still remained from their now quickly fading conversation. The sweet urging in Wendy's eyes made him lick his lips and want to kiss her. The smooth, soft curves of her naked body beneath his made him want to touch her everywhere, all at once. And above all, most confusing and seductive of all, was the tight, wet heat he felt touching him between her legs, which seemed to beckon to him, making him instinctively want to thrust his hips. His physical excitement had waned while they were talking, but at the intimate touch of her body he found that his eagerness returned all in a rush.

Watching Wendy's eyes, Peter slowly pushed forward, sliding into this mysterious opening in her body, his eyes widening at the unexpected and unfamiliar sensations. When he felt Wendy stiffen beneath him, sucking in a sudden hissing breath as if she were in pain, he froze, watching her face worriedly. Her eyes were tightly shut. "Wendy?" he asked softly, concerned that he had done something wrong. "Wendy, did I hurt you?"

When her eyes opened again, he saw tears shining there and began to pull away from her, but Wendy wrapped her arms around him and pulled him closer, causing him to slide even deeper within her body. This time it was Peter who closed his eyes, moaning quietly at the delicious pleasure that raced through him. He was still concerned about Wendy, but it was difficult to keep hold of that thought when her hands were upon his skin and she was moving against him so temptingly.

Her lips looked red in the twilight, her mouth slightly open and so very inviting. Peter leaned down and kissed her as his body moved tentatively within hers, and Wendy returned his kiss with a thrilling heat that set his entire body to tingling pleasurably.

Stroking his hands through her hair, pressing kisses to her face and shoulders and anywhere he could reach, nuzzling into the warm angle of her neck, feeling her body flow beneath his, around his, holding his, Peter could not help but murmur her name aloud. "Wendy," he sighed against her skin, his voice thick with wonder. "Wendy ... oh, Wendy!"

Moving within her, Peter felt more united with Wendy than he had ever felt with any other person. He had never felt so close, so intimate, nor had he ever wanted to, with anyone but her. He had not even known that such closeness was possible, and he felt a humbling gratitude to Wendy for showing this to him, for sharing this with him. Being so close to her was a heady sensation, making him feel almost as if she were becoming a part of his own body, or he a part of hers. He felt as if he might lose himself in their joining, but felt no fear at the thought. He felt only pleasure ... and love.

With some help from the movement of her hips rising to meet his, Peter at length established a rhythm of thrusting which, though admittedly clumsy, nonetheless served to inflame them both, for their passion easily made up for their lack of experience. When Wendy's lips and tongue sensuously traced the sensitive skin of his ear, Peter groaned and sped his movements, without even realizing he had done so. Her breath in his ear, the soft sounds of pleasure she made in response to each of his thrusts, the eager writhing of her body beneath his, the feel of her fingers grasping at the muscles of his back ... it all worked together to drive Peter nearly out of his mind with need. The pace of his thrusts sped even further, and his breathing grew harsh and strained. He strained against her, the tension in his body coiling tighter and tighter with every movement either of them made.

"Peter," Wendy moaned softly into his ear, and the sound of his name upon her lips, her voice so thick with desire, suddenly pushed Peter over the edge, sending him spinning and reeling, his body exploding in a rush of pleasure even more intense than any he had previously felt. His head flew back as he cried out, his entire body stiffening with the nearly unbearable pleasure he'd found by moving within Wendy's body.

He might have once called the sensation that suffused his being at that moment a lightning strike, but now he could only think of it as **Wendy**.

* * *

When he had regained his senses and lifted his weight from crushing his love into the grass, Peter was terribly dismayed to discover blood between Wendy's thighs, and smearing upon his own body between his legs, as well. "Wendy! I hurt you!" he exclaimed in horror. What had he done? Had he injured her with the mindless violence of his thrusting? He felt a deep shame at having found so much pleasure in something that had left Wendy bleeding and hurt. He felt the very worst type of villain. What kind of husband was he, to treat her so?

"Peter, it's normal," soothed Wendy gently. "I'm fine." She had known that losing her virginity would hurt, but the closeness she had felt with Peter made it more than worthwhile. Making love with him was the most amazing thing she had ever felt. And, to tell the truth, she looked forward to experiencing it again.

Though Peter looked doubtful, he accepted Wendy's reassurances regarding the blood. Lifting her into his arms, he flew her to the pool at the foot of the waterfall, carrying her into the warm water and washing her with the greatest of care. When all traces of blood were removed from both their bodies, Peter laid her upon the bank of the pool and asked a question he had been harboring for quite a long time. "May I look?" He gestured vaguely toward Wendy's naked lower body, and she blushed deeply but nodded.

Gently spreading Wendy's legs, Peter curiously examined the flesh between. The moon and stars provided enough light for him to see, but not enough for him to see in complete detail, and so he leaned close in a quest for understanding.

Between her legs seemed to be a wound, the folds of flesh swollen and raw around the opening which had given him so much pleasure. He wondered if the redness and irritation of her flesh were because of his earlier roughness with her, but he did not ask. Instead, he leaned his head forward and gently touched his tongue there. Wendy jumped, causing Peter to pull back and ask, "Did I hurt you again?" but Wendy shook her head and bit her lip, a rather shocked but not unwelcoming look in her eyes.

Peter lowered his head again, soothing her swollen flesh with gentle strokes of his tongue, finding that she tasted mostly of the waterfall, but a bit like the ocean as well. When Wendy arched her back and moaned at the touch of his tongue against her, Peter eagerly continued his ministrations, always careful to be very gentle lest he hurt her again. He found the tangling of her fingers in his hair terribly exciting, and his body grew hard again as he rubbed himself against the ground.

At length, Wendy cried out, her body arching and pressing up against his mouth before she collapsed and lay panting upon the mossy bank, her eyes closed. Remembering the previous time when she had reacted thus, Peter guessed that he had given her pleasure, and smiled smugly.

Ignoring his own renewed excitement -- for he still felt somewhat uncertain about having hurt Wendy with his earlier behavior, and would need more reassurance on that score before he would feel comfortable indulging himself again -- Peter lay beside Wendy on the mossy bank and pulled her into his arms. He would take them back to the house soon, but first he wanted only to lie with her like this beneath the stars, holding her warm body close to him and savoring this new closeness.

Something had shifted within him this night, something deeply buried, something secret and very primal. He found that the courage that had failed him earlier now rose easily within him. The words that had seemed so difficult came easily to him now.

"I love you, Wendy," he whispered into her hair as she curled sweetly against him. "I truly do."

* * *

Deep in the dark of the Neverland night, deep in Neverland's wine-dark oceans, the mermaids talked to each other.

Deep in the dark of the Neverland night, deep in Neverland's hidden caves and hollow trees, the fairies talked to each other.

They knew. Neverland knew. The changing was finished. The balance was restored. Peter Pan would grow no more.

Though he was in some ways now a man, traces of boyhood would ever linger in the green flecks of his eyes, in the soft curve of his lip, in the vulnerable turn of his golden-tanned ankle, and in the sun-kissed tousle of his light brown hair.

Though he was now a husband, Peter -- like so many husbands -- would remain always also a boy, leading the Lost Boys with his eternal eager pursuit of adventure and fun.

And while Wendy would mend their clothing and check that they had washed behind their ears, she would also always retain about her traces of girlhood in the shining lights of her unloosed hair, in the merry laughter of her clear blue eyes, in the smallness of her slender hands, and in the vulnerable turn of her eventually-golden-tanned ankle.

And so, you see, though some outside of Neverland might never understand how such could be possible ... Peter and Wendy remained always simultaneously adults and children, finding joy in both adult and childhood pleasures, ever by each other's side, ever loving each other, forever.

And so, you see, they all lived ...

Happily

Ever

After.


End file.
